


The Wolves Will Come Again

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Chapter 1 - Robb/Margaery, Chapter 2 - Jon/Sansa, F/M, Jon never went to the Wall, Robb Lives, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb swaps Jaime for Sansa and Arya, Smut, either chapter can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-15 20:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21259388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Robb and Jon have always been together, riding into battle with their matching direwolves by their sides.It only stands to reason they would journey to Kings Landing together to bring their sisters home - and once there, would fall completely and dangerously in love with two women they can never have.





	1. Robb

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Set sometime during Season 2/3, where Joffrey agrees to marry Margaery instead of Sansa. Sansa has not been betrothed to Loras and very much wants to go home.
> 
> 2) Robb has been proclaimed King in the North and fights to avenge Ned Stark. No Talisa/Jeyne, but the agreement with the Freys is in place.
> 
> 3) Jon never went to the Wall - he stayed with Robb and fights his battles alongside him. Theon hasn't betrayed Robb.
> 
> 4) They have Jaime (he hasn't killed the Karstark boy) and agree with Catelyn that he should be swapped for the girls, brokering peace.
> 
> 5) For the sake of ickiness, characters are aged up.
> 
> There is some Jon/Sansa in this chapter, but it's mostly Robb's chapter. Jon and Sansa's will be next!

**I. ROBB**

_"If you had to fall into a woman's arms, my son, why couldn't they have been Margaery Tyrell's? The wealth and power of Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well."_

_\- Catelyn Stark, A Storm of Swords  
  
  
_

Robb Stark watched with heavy eyes as the sun set over the horizon, his tired horse fussing between his thighs.

"Are you ready, brother?" Jon Snow's voice rang out from beside him, solemn and dark and lower than his, rudely interrupting the silence. Robb didn't turn to look at him, his gaze focused straight ahead.

The Red Keep at Kings Landing stood just over the hill. It was so reachable now, he could practically taste it, could hear his sisters calling out for him. He tried to predict what they would say, what they would do, when he breached the castle walls to bring them home. He imagined Sansa would weep, burying her face in his furs. Arya would hit him, ask what took him so bloody long, then launch herself into Jon's arms for she had always loved him best. Both reactions would be welcome, and Robb's chest ached at the thought.

"Even if we manage to succeed, to barter their release, this war is far from over."

He sounded like the King they'd demanded he be, the one he still didn't feel like yet, and his armour felt too tight around his chest.

Jon blinked at him for a moment before turning his face away, looking as melancholy as a Stark.

Robb felt like he was outside of his body, hearing himself speak, and he sounded more like Jon than himself. He'd never been that person, solemn and brooding, and he yearned for simpler days at Winterfell, when they were all happy and safe and together.

The south was too stiflingly hot for the brothers, too suffocating, and they missed the cold. They couldn't even remember what it felt like.

"Aye," Jon said quietly, "but it's easier to win one war before looking to another."

Robb glanced at him then and gave a short nod in reply.

Together, they kicked their horses into a gallop, showers of dirt spraying up around them as they went.

Robb tried to shake off the feeling that he was riding into battle - even though he was.

Robb knew he and his brother would hardly receive warm welcomes as they rode into the Red Keep, but as they stood before them in the throne room, hands clasped behind their backs, he felt King Joffrey and Cersei's stares cut through him colder than the North in winter.

In the distance, roaming outside, Ghost and Greywind let out matching howls of anguish. Only the brothers could tell them apart.

"Welcome to the capital, my Lord," the former Queen said, refusing to recognise his title, her mouth drawn into a tight line, "I do wish you had warned us you were coming. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were staging a rampage."

Cersei knew how to hide her emotions behind a carefully calculated mask, but Robb was undeterred. He was a King, chosen by his Northmen to protect them, and though the wolf's blood flowed hot through his veins, he knew how to put on a diplomatic mask when needed. The same applied to Jon, who stood next to him with a stoic expression, but a telling hand on Longclaw at his hip.

"Do you see my armies?" he answered, glancing around the magnificent hall as though a dozen Northerners could be hiding behind a stone pillar or up on the balcony or behind the Iron Throne itself, "I can assure you, we intend to spill no blood this night."

"You come in peace, do you?" Joffrey spoke then, his top lip curled into a snarl, "I'm expected to believe that? You, who has stolen one of my Kingdoms? and _you,_" he turned to Jon with fire flashing through his eyes, "the bastard son of the traitor whose head still rots on my castle wall?"

From where he sat on the other side of the King, a brief look of annoyance flitted over Tywin Lannister's features. He clearly had little patience with his grandson and just by the way he carried himself, Robb knew he was the true power in the capital. He thought perhaps he hated him the most.

The mention of Ned Stark ignited a fury within him that he hadn't felt in weeks. It all came rushing back then, the pain of finding out about his death, the guilt that he should have been there, the anguish that his sisters still were. He took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, and Jon pulled him back with a smooth tug of his jerkin.

"We want justice, it's true," Jon admitted, his Northern brogue calmer and deeper than Robb's, "but ambushing you now, killing you where you sit, will not buy life for our father. But returning something of yours, in exchange for something of ours, may mean no-one else has to die."

"Something of ours?" Margaery Tyrell spoke then and it was the first time Robb truly noticed her.

She sat beside Joffrey and, surrounded by Lannisters, she was every inch a rose between thorns. Her voice was melodic, clear as a bell, and she carried herself with a calm energy so different to the petulant man-child next to her. Her brunette hair hung loose around her shoulders, her flimsy dress made of maybe half the material of a Northern girl's, and though Robb's mind was certainly somewhere else, he would have had to be blind to not notice how lovely she was.

He wasn't blind. He was a warrior and a wolf and, above all, a man. His blood stirred curiously hot in his veins and for a moment, he stood truly rattled.

"Not yours," he found his voice eventually and watched her falter under the focus of his bright eyes, "unless you are already named Queen and my invitation to the wedding was somehow lost."

Her red lips twitched at that, a dimple in her right cheek appearing.

"Enough of your games, Stark," Joffrey barked, almost bored, "what do you want?"

Robb gestured with his hand but couldn't tear his eyes away from the girl. To his surprise, Margaery stared right back, the air charged between them, and he was impressed by her fortitude. Jon glanced to him, and out of his periphery, Robb could see that his brow was slightly arched.

Behind them, the stone doors opened, and two Stark men dragged a dirty and bloody Jaime Lannister into the hall.

Cersei stood almost immediately, a look of equal parts shock and joy fleeting over her cold features before she could stop it.

"What have you done to him?" she snarled, lifting her skirts at the thigh before rushing down the stairs to her twin. She crouched to hold him, her hands cupping his face. Dirt streaked onto her fingers, dried flakes sticking to her fancy dress, and Robb thought her very transparent indeed. Tywin stood then, his hands flexing into fists at his sides, and Robb couldn't tell whether he was angry at him or his children for their obvious display, their stoking of the rumours that already followed them like wildfire.

"The question is what _haven't _we done to him," Robb started and Jon took Jaime by the scuff of the neck, brushing Cersei off and dragging him forward on his knees, "we haven't killed him for what you did to our father and for that, you should be grateful. We will not punish an uncle for his nephew's sins. I will admit, _my_ _King, _I would like to see your head mounted on a spike. I would like to see the North independent and free from Southern tyrants. I would like to set fire to this whole shit place and watch it burn. However, I want my sisters more. I want them safe, and happy, and home. Give them to me, and live. The Starks cannot face any more tragedy."

His eyes drank in the reactions of those around him. Cersei's stone faced, so much like her father. Jaime broken and tired, with none of that characteristic sarcasm or wit. Margaery's bemused, but calculating underneath. Joffrey's was the most crude, childish fury vibrating off him in waves. The Lannister and Baratheon knights looked confused, their hands hovering over their swords, ready to strike once given the command.

Through it all, and for reasons he couldn't quite understand, his gaze kept drifting back to Margaery, as though drawn by a magnet.

Their eyes connected, and Robb's mind flooded, and he'd never felt like that before.

She stared right back, fearless and lovely and nothing like the delicate rose he'd heard stories about.

He was so rattled, he barely heard the Lannisters speak, barely heard their response.

At the back of his mind, he registered that he was surrounded by enemies here, that more people wanted him dead than alive.

_And yet -_

Margaery Tyrell seemed the most dangerous person in the room.

"You lost my sister?"

Jon's voice was lower, darker, than Robb had ever heard it.

They still stood in the throne room, legs starting to ache as they were not permitted chairs - a power move, Robb was sure - some hours later. As discussions regarding surrender raged on, Cersei let slip that the youngest Stark sister was nowhere to be found.

Jaime Lannister was long gone, returned to his chambers to bathe and rest and lick his wounds. At the revelation that they were a sister down, Robb wanted to drag him back to them kicking and screaming. This wasn't part of the plan.

"We came for Sansa _and _Arya," his temper flared like the hot sun, "and now you say you've lost one of them?"

"We didn't lose her," Joffrey spat through gritted teeth, no doubt still smarting that the Stark men couldn't just be cut down where they stood, "the little bitch ran away."

Jon jerked forward, top lip curled into a snarl, twitching fingers ready to unsheath Longclaw at his hip. Robb watched a muscle near his left ear tick as he clenched the strong line of his jaw and his Stark grey eyes flashed with a fury he'd only seen a handful of times in their lives. Jon was always calm. Always level-headed and cool and melancholy like the Starks. Robb often thought whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. His Tully blood, on the other hand, often made him passionate and rash, and he knew that look for he'd seen it in the mirror hundreds of times. Now, with his brother coiled tight like a spring, it felt like a role reversal they could do without.

Robb pulled him back, his grip a tight metal cuff around his wrist.

Jon's eyes flashed again.

"Arya is gone," he seethed and so much was said in those three little words.

Jon loved her. He'd loved her, and he'd lost her, and he needed her back. Kindred spirits, she was his in a way she wasn't Robb's. They even looked like each other, with their long faces and dark hair and nothing Tully in them. Robb looked like Sansa. They came in pairs, and though Jon loved Sansa in his own way, Robb knew they weren't close. Indeed, he wondered how they would react when they saw each other - Jon who treated her with indifference, Sansa who'd only ever called him her half-brother since she was old enough to know what "bastard" meant. They were both so sullen, so stubborn, Robb thought it was a cruel twist of irony that they didn't realise how very similar they were.

"Sansa is here," Robb replied, voice low enough so only his brother could hear him, "don't ruin this. That's an order."

Jon blinked once, twice, then stood back in defeat.

"At least show us the sister you haven't lost," Robb demanded, voice derisive, "I want to see her unharmed."

"Unharmed like Jaime?" Cersei spat, still furious.

Robb's gaze flew to her and his jaw clenched.

"Bring her to me," he said simply, even as foul insults sat sharp on his tongue. He wanted to call her a whore, call out their incest, call Joffrey an abomination, call Tywin old and useless, (he didn't want to dwell on what he increasingly wanted to do to Margaery), but he wouldn't push it, wouldn't ruin it after ordering Jon not to.

The world seemed to stand still as the brothers waited, time stretching out like a yawning chasm between them.

Robb waited, and waited, and still, Jon wouldn't move and Margaery glanced at him. Confusing and bold and lovely.

Robb heard Sansa before he saw her.

It was a broken sob, a cry of his name, and he closed his eyes against the sound.

He didn't miss the way Margaery's mouth twitched at the side, soft and genuine, before he turned around and caught his sister in his arms.

Sansa wept and buried her face in his furs, just as he suspected she would. The pelts were heavy around his shoulders and too hot for the South and her touch was an icy burn like home; it hurt and soothed, all at once. He waited half a minute before he placed her back on the ground, and he almost didn't want to let her go, but Jon was deserving of an embrace too.

For a moment, Robb thought she wouldn't give it to him.

_"Be nice," _he ordered - begged - silently, just like he had when they were children and she'd spat that she didn't want to play with him or that he didn't belong with them or that his presence made mother cry, _"Jon is our brother. He's ours."_

He watched them stare at each other, bodies swaying towards each other before retreating back, like the ebb and flow of the sea. After-all, he was still Jon and she was still Sansa, and neither of them knew what they were to each other. They'd never known how to be around each other, how to be in the world together.

"Sansa," finally, Jon murmured her name and Robb watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

Hearing it was like a dam breaking, and then she was crying again. Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks as she grabbed him fiercely, hooking her arms under his own and around his waist.

She rested her cheek against his armour breastplate and Jon's arms hung useless at his sides. His expression was as stoic as ever, unreadable other than a slight flash of discomfort, but his fingers twitched.

"Put your arms around me, Jon," Robb heard Sansa whisper - and like the slave he'd always been to the Starks, Jon obeyed.

He held her, one arm around her waist and the other wrapped up in her red hair, anchoring her to him. As Robb turned to speak, he noticed how Jon didn't let her go, his fingers twisting and tugging strands free from her elaborate southern up-do. She was of the North, and Robb's insides burned at the wrongness of the style. He knew his brother felt the same.

He watched him break away from her, holding her tear-stained cheeks in his hands as he murmured, "are you hurt?"

Sansa swallowed and shook her head, but Robb saw how she trembled.

"Touching," Joffrey rolled his eyes, "remind me again why I shouldn't kill you all where you stand?"

"Allow me, my love?" Margaery spoke, holding Robb's gaze for a beat too long before she turned to Joffrey, "if you would be so gracious as to hear my unimportant opinion."

Robb scowled, wondering why she undersold herself. He didn't know yet, that Margaery Tyrell span webs as intricate as a spider, that she won games her opponents didn't even know they were playing.

"You executed the traitor Ned Stark, as was your right," she started and the words set Robb's teeth on edge, "as such, and as we expected, the Young Wolf here seeks revenge and has taken the North for his own."

"Are you getting to a point any time soon?" Joffrey spat petulantly, but Margaery's face remained smooth and patient, if a little guarded.

"My point is... Robb Stark's ties to the Riverlands help his cause... and that's without mentioning the potential of dragging the Vale into the conflict. Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold, however your father, may the gods bless him, loved his tournaments and feasts. The Crown is three million gold pieces in debt, and you have borrowed not only from the Lannisters, but my family, the Iron Bank of Braavos and several Tyroshi trading cartels too. Your people riot in the streets and you fight overseas and at home to consolidate your rightful position. And so, my love, this war with the Young Wolf here," she extended a dainty hand to gesture towards to Robb, "is a war we do not need."

Robb could only stare, stunned at her intelligence, her shrewd, strategic mind. Jon glanced to him with an arch of his brow, clearly surprised too. Cersei and Tywin stayed silent, irritation etched on their features, but Robb could tell they agreed with her. They didn't want to be embroiled in a war they definitely couldn't afford and maybe couldn't win.

Joffrey looked less impressed.

"His father was a traitor!" he spat out, "Ned Stark was given the chance to bend the knee, to accept me as his rightful King before the Gods, old and new. We offered to send him to the Wall which would have suppressed the Northern threat-"

"Liar!" Sansa cried tearfully, taking a step forward, "father did as you asked. He did _everything_ \- and you killed him anyway."

Robb's eyes flashed back to Joffrey, anger licking up his body like flames. Over her shoulder, his eyes connected with Jon's and he saw his confusion mirrored there. The Sansa they said goodbye to in Winterfell would never have been so insubordinate, calling Joffrey out like that.

She had changed, that much was clear, and there was a hole where her fear had once been.

"Mistakes were made," Margaery admitted smoothly, "but we cannot continue like this, teetering precariously on the knife's edge of war. Let Lord Stark stay a while, at least. We can discuss this like reasonable adults."

Her words were every bit as flowery as the sigil on her family's banners, and Robb found his curiosity piqued.

"I am willing to discuss terms for peace," Robb said. He felt Jon bristle beside him, but he was confident in the knowledge he wouldn't openly question his King. _Trust me, _he thought silently, communicating with his brother in a language only they could understand, "but my brother and sister must be allowed to journey home."

"Robb," Sansa breathed, moving over to him and taking his hand, "you can't leave me again."

"She's right," Jon added, "the men in our family do not do well in the capital, brother. I don't think you should be here alone."

It was no understatement. Starks didn't journey South. It was said that the Northmen were made of ice, strong and gruff, and that they melted when they passed the Twins. The South was no place for a Stark, as the ghosts of Ned and Brandon and the dozens before them could attest.

And yet, the South was where Robb found himself, and where he would stay.

"I will keep half a dozen good men with me," he told Jon, "and Greywind. I will be fine."

"No, I should be with you," Jon insisted for they had never been apart, not since they were boys.

"You should be with _Sansa. _She needs you more than I do," he said, "there is no-one else I trust to keep her safe."

"Robb..." Sansa whispered his name again, a sob welling in her throat. She embraced him again and he accepted it willingly, holding her close to his body. He held her as fiercely as the day she was born, a sprawling little thing with Tully hair and eyes just like his. For a time - before Arya, before Bran and Rickon - they were the only trueborn Starks in Winterfell, and Robb felt the need to protect her with an almost violent intensity.

"I love you," Robb whispered, closing his eyes and gently touching his forehead to hers, "and we will be together again soon. I promise."

"I love you," Sansa choked back in reply.

She broke away and stood back, and Jon approached. There was only a moment's hesitation before the brothers embraced each other, fierce and tight.

"Look after her," Robb said in the voice of a brother, rather than a King, and Jon nodded smoothly.

"Always."

"Farewell, Snow," he murmured as they broke away, and he clasped a hand on Jon's shoulder, squeezing softly.

"And you, Stark."

In the distance, Ghost and Greywind howled their discontent.

The next day dawned unbearably sunny and hot for Robb.

He hated the southern climate. He hated how humid it was, how the heat burned under your skin and wrapped around your throat like the leafy tendrils in the wolfswood, squeezing tight until it felt like you were suffocating. He hated everything about Kings Landing.

_Except -_

From where he stood in the gardens, he watched Margaery Tyrell walk towards him.

"I half expected you to have slit Joffrey's throat by now, riding your direwolf into the night," she drawled, her airy tone at odds with the seriousness of her accusation.

Robb quirked a brow as she walked past him. She paused and glanced over her shoulder, throwing him a pointed look that made clear she expected him to follow. He did, his curiosity piqued, but his steps were guarded and cautious as he walked beside her.

"I do not ride Greywind," he said, hands clasped behind his back.

Margaery tutted, tipping her head to the side. Robb thought the act made her look very much _like_ Greywind, in-fact.

"Do you not?" she sounded surprised, but he couldn't tell if it was genuine or not, "how disappointing. Perhaps the stories I've heard about you are much exaggerated. Could you advise?"

"That depends."

She arched a perfect brow.

"On?"

"On what you've heard."

Robb fired back easily and _there it was_, that look again, all dimpled smiles and sparkling eyes.

"I've heard they call you the Young Wolf," she started, gaze focused straight ahead as they walked through the gardens.

"Aye, that's true enough."

"They say you ride into battle on the back of a giant direwolf," her lips formed into a pout; she looked almost disappointed, "though you've already cruelly crushed that dream."

Robb's mouth twitched under his beard.

"Dream of me often, do you?"

Margaery huffed a laugh, musical and sweet and far too alluring.

"They say you can turn into a wolf yourself when you want," she said rather than answering the question, and there was a hint of amusement in her voice, "they say you can't be killed."

Robb nodded, for he had heard these tales before. He kept his expression neutral as they continued walking, a heat that had little to do with his ill-suited furs spreading over his skin.

"And do you believe them?"

Margaery seemed to ponder this for a moment before she stopped walking. She had paused at a beautiful spot. There was an intricately carved fountain behind her, gushing clear blue water, and bright flowers of every colour lined the edges, but Robb saw none of it.

He saw only her.

"No," she answered easily, "my first husband thought himself infallible. He wanted to be King, so declared it to be so. The making and unmaking of Kings... it seems a dangerous business."

Robb's anger flared.

"There's no need to speak in riddles, my lady," he narrowed his eyes, "you think I named myself King because I'm arrogant and thirsty for power? You think I will die because of it? _My people_ named me. They trusted me to keep the North safe. I'm not interested in winning wars so people sing songs about me. Nor do I have any interest in sitting on the Iron Throne."

Margaery remained silent throughout his speech, hands clasped delicately in-front of her and head tipped to the side. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, her expression unreadable, and Robb wanted to shake her.

_She is infuriating_, he thought with a rush that was more than just irritation.

"Then, your crown seems heavier than most," she said finally, "good day, Lord Stark."

With a gentle nod, she made clear the conversation was over for now. She had got what she wanted, had chipped away at him a little, and like a hot-headed fool, he'd given too much of himself away.

He'd acted like Greywind, salivating at the slightest spark of attention, and it was the first time of many that Robb would curse Margaery Tyrell.

Her dress floated behind her as she walked away from him, and though he wished for it, she didn't glance back once.

Robb was exhausted.

He was a warrior and a good fighter. He knew this. The fact that he had never lost a battle in his young life confirmed it, as did the rush of blood that screamed through his veins and the ache that tore through his muscles after a rightful kill. Since they were boys, Jon was lithe and quick. He had grown lean where Robb had grown broad, and while he was quicker, Robb was the stronger of the two. Not for the first time, he wished his brother were here. Jon always knew what to do, was always able to keep a level head, while Robb often rushed in. They complimented each other and Robb felt tired, and anxious, and only halfway whole without him.

Yet, he knew Jon would be as lost as he here. They were wolves of the North, always scrapping, always stalking their prey, and they were not made for perfumed Lords and their southern diplomacy. They were warriors, not politicians.

Robb felt out of his depth as he discussed terms for peace, and he needed help.

Perhaps the betrothed of his sworn enemy was not the right person to turn to, yet Robb found himself in Margaery's company nonetheless.

"You never told me..." she started as they walked through the gardens again, "...what they say about _me._"

Robb felt his lips twitch into a smirk.

"You enjoy having your ego stroked?"

"I enjoy having all manner of things stroked," Margaery answered easily, a dangerously flirtatious edge to her voice.

Robb wasn't quite sure how to counter that move. He'd never met a girl like her. They called her the rose of Highgarden, yet she was less of a delicate flower than anyone he'd ever known. She wasn't like the girls in fancy dresses he knew back home, swooning at the sight of a spider, blushing prettily at his attentions, yet she wasn't like Arya either. She was still dangerously feminine, with curves in all the right places, and she wore a smile like a weapon.

She stood out - fire and intelligence and boldness - and Robb knew she played the game better than he did.

Yet, he still knew how to play.

"They say your beauty is rivaled only by your intelligence," is all he gave her. His voice was even and smooth, a small shrug to his shoulders, and he spoke as though he was discussing something as innocuous as the weather. Flattery was not the way of the North, and he refused to fall over her like the perfumed lords that followed her like flies around shit.

"This is good," Margaery was unperturbed by his aloofness and she didn't ask if he agreed, "I think I would rather be judged by my actions, rather than my appearance."

"Unusual for a woman."

"Is it?" she turned to him then, ceasing her steps. He paused in-front of her, his curious eyes sweeping over her form, "or perhaps you do not know many women, my Lord."

"Not many like you, my Lady, I'll admit."

She seemed pleased by this, that dimpled smile appearing again. Robb found his eyes drawn to it and his fingers itched to touch themselves to her cheek, to feel the smooth planes of her, to see if she blushed as pretty as the rose they said she was. He turned his face away with a clench to his jaw. Gods, he needed a woman. It had been too long.

She started walking again, beckoning him to walk beside her. Like a slave, he followed.

"I heard another rumour about you, my Lord."

"Robb."

She arched a brow. "Robb?"

"Seeing as you refuse to address me as your Grace, Robb is my name. I would like to be called as such."

"I cannot address you as your Grace, for you are not my King," she defended herself.

"And what a King you have," he drawled sarcastically.

Margaery smiled, unoffended.

"I have heard tell of King Joffrey's bravery and have come to love him from afar. He will make a fine King," she said, but her words sounded practiced, like she was reciting a poem.

Robb stared at her, looking straight through her. She kept her face unreadable, but he could see through the cracks to the thorns underneath.

"You don't believe that any more than I do."

It wasn't a question, and Margaery didn't argue.

"You presume too much, _Robb,_" her tongue wrapped around his name almost sinfully. He wanted to hear it again, and again, and again, and under very different circumstances. He wanted to steal it from her mouth as he kissed her. He wanted to hear her chant it as he buried his head under her skirts and gave her the Lord's kiss, hissing as she tugged at his curls. He wanted to hear her sob it as he moved inside her, bringing her to a peak so powerful, she would have to name him King.

"I do believe you have journeyed somewhere else," Margaery's melodic voice pierced through his debauched thoughts and her smirk was devious, as though she could read his mind, "anywhere nice?"

_Nice, _he wanted to laugh. _Aye, if nice means something different in the south, something torturous._

"What rumours have you heard then, Lady _Margaery_?" he fought to drag the conversation back to steady ground, batting her name back at her like a weapon.

She countered it with a gentle smile.

"That you, too, are betrothed," he tried to keep his expression neutral, but he felt the acid on his tongue, "what is her name?"

"Frey, I suppose," the name felt like a lance to the heart, "I do not know her first name."

Margaery tipped her head to the side and he bristled under her shrewd, all-seeing gaze.

"And your sister, the little wild one... she is also betrothed to a Frey?"

The mention of Arya set his teeth on edge and a sharp pain tore through him. He wondered if Jon would happen upon her during his journey North, prayed for it to be so. If not, he would find her. He would tear the world apart if he had to, but he would find her. He would bring her home and watch her fail at needlework and shoot arrows better than Bran and run rings around her infuriated Septa. The memories made his chest ache.

"Aye, she is."

Margaery's eyes narrowed, as though processing this information, and then they were walking again.

"Two Starks, one the heir to Winterfell, for a rickety bridge," she let out a musical laugh, like nothing could be funnier to her, "seems a fair trade."

Anger flared in Robb's gut again, and suddenly he didn't find her perceptiveness so enticing.

"I still thought I could march South and save my father in time. But not without that bridge. I needed it," he insisted, though the words rang hollow.

"And now your father is dead, your sister is missing, you carry the weight of a war upon your back, and you are betrothed to a woman you don't even know."

He stopped in his tracks, his hand darting out to curl around the crook of her elbow. He pulled her behind a bush, nestled in the corner of a leafy maze, away from prying eyes. He didn't let go, fingers tight enough to leave a bruise, and Margaery stared up at him, calm and unaffected.

She was the ice to his fire and still, his temper raged under his skin.

"And you love Joffrey, do you?" he asked, jaw clenched tight.

She just smiled, infuriating and lovely.

"Of course," she countered with a practiced smile, "as I loved my first husband. To be a Queen, I must rule. Yet to be a wife, I must submit. I know my place, _Robb. _And I know the politics of the south far better than you. The twisted games they play."

He blinked down at her and though he was significantly taller, she seemed to surround him. He felt her everywhere.

"You admit they're twisted, then?"

"Twisted and vile and wrong. That is why you are not safe here. I know the sort of man you are. I've known it from the moment I saw you. You're strong, and you're brave, and you're loyal. You would go head to head with your enemies, carry out executions and face threats directly, as honour demands. But this is place without honour."

"Aye, I know it. The negotiations are over, I have my sister. I will be going home soon,"

Something flickered over her face. If Robb didn't know better, he'd swear she looked disappointed. She also looked as though she didn't believe him.

Gently, she took the hand that still held her elbow. Her fingers burned where they touched his skin, and she placed their hands between them. Still, she didn't let go.

"They say you Northerners are made of ice," she murmured, entwining their fingers and glancing at them with a mysterious smile. She drew charged circles on his palm and he fought the urge to drag her to him, "nothing could be further from the truth. You run too hot. You wear your heart on your sleeve, every expression clear as day on your pretty face."

"Jon's the pretty one."

Her mouth tipped again.

"If you say so," her gaze flitted from his eyes to his mouth and back again, "guard yourself, Robb. Hold your cards close to your chest so they can never hurt you. I think I should like to see you live."

With one more unreadable glance, she let him go and headed towards the castle.

He stared after her, as he was now in the habit of doing, and there was an ache where her hands once were.

There was to be a tournament, Joffrey announced, in honour of his nameday.

Robb wanted to go home. He had no interest in such displays of extravagance, and wondered again at Margaery's revelation that the crown was already millions of gold pieces in debt. Robb knew that when he was Hand, his father would never have allowed the King to beggar the realm.

They were fools, he thought, to have rid themselves of a man as valuable as Ned Stark.

"When I was a boy, my father told me that being a ruler was very much _like_ being a father," he told Margaery as they walked side by side to the jousting arena, "except you have thousands of children, and you worry for them all."

"I agree. A few moons past, I stopped a procession in Flea Bottom to visit with the children at an orphanage. The guards and Joffrey himself were horrified," her lips twitched at the memory and Robb couldn't look away, "_they're dirty and smelly_, the guards warned, as though I should faint at the sight. _Your dress will be ruined_, as though I don't have a hundred more. I ordered the servants to distribute bread and toys. You should have seen their faces, Robb. The smallfolk. Each one, a child of the realm. My child."

Robb gazed at her, astonished. He wasn't foolish or naive enough to believe her actions were entirely benevolent. Margaery was adept at winning the hearts and minds of her people, a skill which Cersei solely lacked, and it worked in her favour.

Yet, he could see, at the core of it all, she had a good heart.

"My father would have liked you," he said because it was true, and she awarded him with perhaps the first genuine smile he'd seen since arriving in the South.

The joust was bloody, good men falling lifeless from their horses, and Robb thought it a violent and unnecessary sport. He smelled roasting meats, and heard the sound of laughter and the blare of heralds' trumpets.

Still, he bristled uncomfortably.

"You look rather white, Stark," Joffrey sneered, hateful eyes flitting up and down.

Robb adjusted his jerkin, thinner than his Northern pelts and armour, but still too hot.

"I am unused to the heat," he said, matching the King's gaze, "and this is not my sport."

His hands clenched at his sides, lightly gripping his pocket where a letter lay. He wanted to keep it guarded, keep it with him, and he worried it would be damaged or torn or lost.

It was from Jon, confirmation that he and Sansa had reached the Trident, and Robb ached for home.

Yet something - _something - _was keeping him here.

"Perhaps you should have a lie down," Joffrey said sarcastically, "leave this to the real men."

Robb was unaffected as he stood, feeling the heat of Cersei and Tywin's eyes on him.

"I believe I will do just that," he watched stoically as a knight was knocked off his horse, the lance spearing past his armour and spraying blood like warm rain across the delighted, savage crowd, "excuse me."

As he walked down the steps and towards the castle, he felt Margaery watching him.

He remembered the stories about Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, then. He thought about his father recounting it to him as they stood before Lyanna Stark's statue in the crypts at Winterfell. He thought about a Baratheon riding North because of a Stark, about the war that followed and how Seven Kingdoms paid the price, and then he glanced over his shoulder to see Margaery still watching him and suddenly, he couldn't think of anything at all.

He was no dragon prince, but he shuddered all the same.

Margaery found him as he knew she would, standing on the steps of the Great Sept where his father died.

"I knew you'd come here eventually," she said, her soft voice washing over him. Greywind stood by his side and he drew attention. The smallfolk stared at him in equal parts awe and fear as they passed, this beast that didn't belong here. Robb didn't belong here. He closed his eyes against the heat again.

He could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist air covered the city like a blanket, yet when he turned around to face her, he saw her unaffected. She was of the South, while he was of the North. Opposites in every way. He wondered if a rose could grow in the snow, if her pretty skin would crack like ice.

Then he reminded himself it didn't matter, couldn't matter.

"I wanted to see where he died."

Margaery took a step, quickly holding her hand out when the guards behind her followed her.

"I'm fine," she dismissed them easily, "please stay back. I wish to speak with Lord Stark alone."

The guards nodded reluctantly, moving backwards down a step, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Robb didn't want to speak - and not to her. He didn't want to engage in their normal back and forth. Glancing down at the broken steps, he felt sad, and angry, and mostly very, very tired. Greywind scratched at the steps, sniffing curiously. He let out a whine and flicked out his wet tongue, as though he were trying to wring Ned Stark's blood from the stone.

"I was still married to Renly, camping with his army in the Stormlands, when I heard about your father," she said softly and he felt the heat of her behind him, "a terrible affair. I'm sorry it happened."

Robb shrugged and didn't reply.

She was undeterred.

"I'm sure the High Septon would have regarded it as blasphemy against the gods," she continued, "the shedding of blood is forbidden in and around the Sept."

"I wouldn't know," Robb said eventually, voice quiet, "we worship the Old Gods in the North."

Margaery nodded and came to stand directly next to him. He still couldn't look at her, staring at the steps, thinking about how he died. He wondered if he was afraid.

_"How can a man be brave if he is afraid?"_ Robb had once asked him, perched upon his knee as he learned he would one day be the Lord of Winterfell, _"t__hat is the only time a man can be brave," _his father had answered.

Robb wanted to be brave. For Bran and Rickon, who waited patiently for him to come home. For Sansa, whose dreams of marrying a gallant golden prince had been shattered. For Arya, who was alone in the world, probably scared enough for the both of them. For mother, who had five children, yet slept alone in a cold, damp tent.

"You want to know a secret?" Margaery leaned in and he was assaulted with her scent, fragrant and sweet like summer roses, "in public, I am exactly as pious as I need to be. What I believe is more or less irrelevant. The world is cruel and unforgiving, regardless of whether you worship the old gods or the new. Neither would accept my brother, after-all, and yet I would lay down my life to protect him. I'm sure you feel the same about your brothers and sisters."

"Aye," Robb answered easily, and noticed how Greywind had begun to circle her, sniffing her curiously, before laying down at her feet.

Margaery's eyes darted to the animal and she let out a happy laugh.

"He likes you," Robb said, more to himself then to her, and he watched her stroke his fur.

"I like him," she answered, leaning down and letting him lick her face.

Robb whistled, ordered the beast down, but Margaery held the beast tight, delighted.

"Come," she stood eventually, but kept her fingers in Greywind's fur. Robb wondered if she would make him purr like that. "I wish to show you the inside."

The guards stepped forward again, likely unwilling to leave her alone in the company of a Stark, Joffrey's enemy. But Margaery was a force to be reckoned with and she had never been one for royal protocol. She ordered them back and entered alone with Robb. Robb ordered Greywind to stay outside, and the wolf patrolled the entrance up and down, eyes shining fierce.

"Joffrey once brought me here," she said as they turned a corner, "he took great delight in telling me about the lost Targaryen dynasty. In this urn just here? the ashes of Aerion Targaryen, who drank wildfire in the foolish hope it would turn him into a dragon. What is left of Rhaenyra Targaryen, murdered by her brother's dragon, is in that crypt over there. He showed me where his uncle cut down the Mad King. He showed me where the last Targaryens were buried and he enjoyed it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Robb asked, his brows furrowing.

She opened her mouth to answer but someone began to walk past. Quickly grabbing his arm, she dragged him into a nearby, darkened alcove. She was lit by candlelight and this close, he could see flecks of amber in her eyes and feel her breath dance across his lips. He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

"Because I know what sort of man - _boy - _Joffrey is. And I know we've known each other for the space of a few conversations, but... I trust you. I want you to trust me."

Robb swallowed, his eyes drawn to her generous mouth.

"How can I do that?"

"By believing me. Your secret is safe with me."

Confusion rushed through his veins.

"What secret?"

Margaery raised her brows with a pointed look.

"You didn't give up your quest for vengeance the day you rode into the Red Keep," she said and Robb's throat burned, "you know that as long as the Lannisters sit on the throne, the North will never be safe. And more than that, you're a good man. You believe in justice, and you loved your father. The North remembers... isn't that what they say?"

He held her heated gaze for a moment before he glanced away, jaw clenched into a tight line.

"You're wrong. I'm tired of the bloodshed. I have my sisters. I want to go home, for my men to go home. I told Cersei and Tywin-"

"-I know what you told them," she interrupted him brazenly, "you told them the King in the North will return to Winterfell, that you will rule but recognise Joffrey as king. You told them you would not take up arms against the Lannisters, that your armies would stay in the North where they belonged. They're so arrogant, they believed you. I know better."

The accusation flared like wildfire under his skin and he moved closer to her still.

"Perhaps you're not as clever as you think you are," he growled out, but it was in vain. She had read him like a book, seen through his cracks. She had him wrapped around her finger, a wolf trapped within her thorns, and it was precarious position indeed.

"Perhaps," she shrugged and her smile was devastating, "but I'm right about this."

He saw no point in lying to her.

"And why haven't you run straight to Joffrey with these suspicions?"

He expected her to spin a lie, to bat her eyelids or smirk at him in that lovely, devious way. She did none of those things. Instead, she glanced up at him with an expression he'd never seen before. Not from her.

It was genuine, every emotion written across her face, clear for him to see. It was an expression she had warned him against wearing, and he burned under it.

"I don't know," she whispered finally, meeting his eyes.

Robb hesitated for only a moment - and then, standing before the new gods he didn't believe in, he closed the gap and kissed her.

They stood still, breathing shakily through their noses, before Margaery Tyrell yielded beneath him. She gave a sigh, opening her mouth and letting him slip his tongue inside. He wrapped his right hand in her brunette curls, feeling the strands soft between his fingers, as his other arm snaked around her waist. He leaned her back, bracing her against the stone wall, shrouded in protective darkness.

She whimpered against him, tongue curling around his, hands gripping at his tunic. She tugged and pulled like a wolf, desperate to be closer. He wanted to be, wanted to crawl inside her, where he would be safe and warm and never die, never bleed out on the battlefield. Her hands were greedy as they trailed up his strong chest to his curls and gave a sharp tug.

There was a flash of white as he broke away and hissed through his teeth. In the darkness, his blue eyes were practically black, and she wore a matching expression.

"This is wrong," she whispered, even as she pulled him closer. He nipped at her, tugging her bottom lip between his teeth and making her whine.

"I don't care," he growled, and kissed her again.

She tasted of wine and berries and everything that was good and right. Breaking away from her mouth, he lowered his lips to her neck, planting hot, opened mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin. She arched against him, spreading her legs slightly so he could slot inside.

"Robb," she breathed his name and it was everything he'd wished for. His hips bracketed her against the wall, softly moving, and he grunted into her neck when he felt her shift and begin to ride his thigh.

She was beautiful like this, wild and free in a way she rarely was. She was always in control, always calculating. Now, he'd reduced her to something wanton, her pupils blown to black, leaving only a thin circle of piercing colour.

He hiked her thin dress up, hitching it around her waist, and he felt her heat against his thigh. She gasped sharply as she ground her hips, using him for her pleasure, sliding back and forth. She was growing increasingly slick and he fought the urge to slip his fingers between her thighs, knowing if he felt her, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from unlacing his breeches and sinking into her tight heat, right here in the house of the new gods.

She cursed when she came, arching her back and shaking with the force of it. He swallowed her moan with a kiss, telling her to be quiet.

The sounds of footsteps nearby brought them crashing back to Earth with sickening force.

She pushed him away, shock sparking through her eyes before she could stop it.

Tears swum in her eyelids as she fled, leaving him with an ache in his chest and a cock as hard as Valerian steel.

He didn't try to pull her back.

The night before he left for the North, Robb paced up and down his borrowed chamber, his mind on one thing.

One person.

Whether through luck or fate, a knock on his door pierced the silence and _there she was, _wide eyed and pretty.

She stood illuminated by a halo of candlelight and he watched the movement of her graceful throat as she swallowed. It was the first time he'd ever seen Margaery Tyrell nervous and the air felt thick, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

_It's all been leading to this_, Robb thought. He wondered when it began, when the wheels had been set in motion. Was it when he'd kissed her, trembling and afraid, with the gods staring down? When she held his fingers in the gardens and told him to be brave? When he arrived in Kings Landing, hot and dusty from the journey? When Renly Baratheon was murdered, leaving her free to move her ambition to the capital? When his father's head was severed from his body? Before even then?

He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to ask how she managed to slip away from her guards, why she hadn't spoken to him since that afternoon in the Sept of Baelor. He didn't want to think about how wrong this was, how she was dangerous and southern and could never be his. She looked like she was about to speak, probably about to spin her honey words into a reason this shouldn't happen.

Robb grabbed her face and stole the words from her mouth.

He just kissed her so he didn't have to hear it.

She let out a small gasp, giving him the opportunity to slip his tongue in her mouth. He licked inside, hot and wet, and she arched against his hard body with a whine. It was a sweet surrender, sweeter than any battle he'd ever won, any he'd go on to win, and his arms wrapped around her slim waist. He pulled her closer to him, walking her backwards until the back of her knees hit the desk.

Without breaking away from her mouth, he hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her, settling himself between her spread thighs.

She broke the kiss, panting, as her hands flew to his breeches. She tugged at the laces, clumsy in her haste, and he grabbed her wrists. Holding them between their bodies, fingers entwined, he kissed her as though they had time.

He unlaced the breeches himself as she lifted his nightshirt over his head.

"You're beautiful," she breathed in awe, hands trailing across his strong chest. Heat flared under his skin as her curious fingers trailed over a long-healed scar on his ribs. He didn't want to dwell on such things, on blood and pain and the war to come. Not when Margaery Tyrell was wet and wanting between his legs.

He kissed her again and reached behind her, easily unlacing her modest dress. It fluttered to her waist and pooled there and his cock twitched at the revelation that she was wearing nothing underneath.

He was no maid, having travelled to Wintertown many times in his youth. He remembered laughing along with Theon as Jon balked at the idea, a scowl flitting across his sullen features as he refused to accompany them. There were times he thought he should have been honourable like Jon, times where he regretted his decision and thought maybe he should have saved himself for his lady wife. But then he wouldn't know just how to kiss the woman in-front of him, how to tease her and draw out her pleasure. Judging by her moans, his tutoring was welcome indeed.

One particular lesson, taught by a redhead named Ros, sparked a hot memory in his mind and he dropped to his knees.

He grabbed her hips, pulling her off the table and helping her to kick off her dress. As he knelt at her altar, he could see she had soaked through her small clothes and his cock stirred again. He tugged the garments down her smooth legs, throwing them to the side to join her dress.

He glanced up at her briefly, saw her face flushed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He spread her legs and put his mouth on her. She inhaled on a gasp, her head tipping back, as his hot tongue gently probed through her folds. He slid his mouth up and down, covering his lips and beard in her slick, and flicked his tongue the way Ros taught him. She keened against him, spreading her legs wider so he could bury himself in her cunt.

He mouthed at her like he would be happy to die there, surrounded by her heat. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tugging at his curls in a too-tight grip. He grunted against the slight pain, scraping his teeth against her enflamed clit.

"Fuck," she bit out, thighs trembling around his head. He gently opened them again, continuing his onslaught. He broke away for only a second, just so he could slip his fingers in his mouth. He didn't need to, she was wet enough, and he inserted two into her before attaching his mouth to her clit and giving a hard suck.

It only took three thrusts before she fractured apart, almost sobbing her release. He removed his fingers from her and slung an arm across her waist, keeping her still as she bucked against his mouth. He licked at her as she came down, leaving her shuddering in the afterglow.

Her knees gave out and he lowered her to the floor, kneeling together as she kissed him a rough thank you. Her tongue curled around his and she moaned at her taste.

"I want you," she admitted breathlessly, forehead resting against his, "I have from the moment I met you."

The revelation made Robb's chest feel too tight.

"Me too," he breathed, "I tried not to, but I can't stop."

She kissed him again and he tasted wine and smoke and tears - his or hers, he wasn't sure. He just stood and carried her with him, moving them to the bed. She settled in the sheets, a vision spread before him, and he covered her with his body.

Her grip was strong and sure as her hand darted down and grasped him. He bucked into her, releasing a groan, as her thumb swiped over the engorged head of his cock. He was leaking, so hard it was almost painful, and she gave it three steady pumps before gently placing it at her soaked entrance.

He hesitated for only a moment before pushing inside.

Margaery arched her back, a desperate cry falling from her lips. Her legs spread, wrapping themselves around his waist as he moved his hips in shallow thrusts. Their mouths brushed hotly, sliding together but not quite connecting, as he thrust harder into her tight heat.

She was no maid either, he realised, and felt a wave of relief. His gut churned at the further realisation that he hadn't cared. He had been willing to take her maidenhead, to leave her exposed and vulnerable when Joffrey took her on their marriage bed and saw no blood on the sheets when morning broke. His lack of honor momentarily sickened him, and he could see father and Jon's stern faces staring down at him in judgement.

But even the honourable Ned Stark had succumbed to weakness once, and Margaery's husky moan brought him back to earth.

_Let the Gods take me,_ he thought, for there was no stopping this now.

She dragged her nails down his sweat-slicked back, making him hiss, before digging them into his ass to demand he fucked her harder. He obliged, pounding into her faster, feeling that tell-tail coil in the pit of his stomach start to unravel.

Her cunt pulsed around him, unbearably tight and wet. He waited for her first, watched as her second peak washed over her with the force of the waves at Shipbreaker bay, before he let the white-hot pleasure take him.

He pulled out, spilling his seed hot and wet on the inside of her thigh.

He wouldn't give her a bastard, Jon's sullen face flashing through his mind once more. He thought then about the children they might make; half wolf, half rose. Children with his curls and her eyes. He thought they'd either be artists who painted warriors, or warriors who made love to artists. Robb had always wanted to be a father. It was a welcome thought, but one that couldn't be, so he refused to spill inside her.

It was a small display of honour from a man who had none left, and Margaery trembled in his arms.

She quickly fell into a sleep that evaded him.

"Come with me," Robb murmured a few hours later when she had woken, and his release still stirred hot in his veins, making him bold.

Margaery's eyes flew open and she sat up, the crisp white sheet pooling loose around her waist. His eyes swept over the graceful arch of her spine as she turned her head to face him.

"What?"

"You heard me," his mouth curled into a lopsided smile, "come with me when I journey North. You don't love Joffrey and I know you feel something for me. My skill lies on the battlefield, in commanding my military. In politics, I leave much to be desired. You, however, have a sharp mind. You would be valuable to me. We would compliment each other well."

It clearly wasn't the answer she wanted, for her nose scrunched in distaste and there was a pinch to her mouth.

"Yes, and I suppose the wealth and power of Highgarden has nothing to do with it."

Robb tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I do not want you for Highgarden," he murmured and the truth was his curse, "I just want you."

Her expression softened slightly, before that mask was back up, impenetrable.

"You want too much," she whispered, turning away from him and facing ahead. She clutched the sheet to her breasts. "You're an impressive man, Robb. You're fair and caring and I've heard of your ferocity in battle. Your sister said you go where the fighting is thickest. That's rare in a leader, and I respect it."

"So what's the problem?"

Margaery stared at him for a moment, her expression severe.

"What's the problem?" she repeats with a bitter, humourless laugh, "_that _is the problem. You are your father's son and you have inherited his flaws, as well as his strengths. I weigh up all the options. You put honour before reason. You say we would compliment each other, but we would be a disaster together. We would disagree on just about everything. I do what I have to do to protect the ones I love."

"So do I."

"No," she shook her head gently, "you do what honour demands. I am not a good person, Robb. Not really. I want to be Queen."

Her words felt like a dagger, sharp and just as painful.

"No matter the cost?"

He wasn't enough to turn her.

The revelation came as a sickening blow.

"It's all I've ever wanted," she defended herself, "I have to be Queen of all of Westeros, not just the North, not just the South. It's what my father always wanted. It's what I want. I cannot wither away in the cold and unforgiving North. It's not a place for roses... and I would have to give up Highgarden. The Reach is in no position to secede and join your kingdom, since they're nowhere near the North and the Westerlands are right beside."

Though the words hurt, Robb understood. The Tyrells wanted the Iron Throne; they had no interest in the fight for Northern dependence. Just as he would go where the fighting was thickest, so too would she go where there was power to be gained.

He wanted to be angry, but he had no right to be. She had made no promises, had harboured him under no false illusions.

And she had _thought_ about this, had obviously considered it carefully, while he had just rushed in headfirst, hazy and excited and a little obsessed with her.

"What am I to do?" he asked after a beat, already a slave to her opinion, and he sounded lost.

Margaery stood and he followed. She stood wrapped up in the sheet, a beautiful specter soon to slip through his fingers, and he dragged her mouth to his.

This kiss was different. It was gentle and painful, full of promises that would never come to fruition, and she shivered under his touch.

When they broke away, he saw her blink back tears.

She lifted her hands and cradled his face.

"You will marry the Frey girl," she whispered, and she carried on speaking before he could interrupt her, "even in Highgarden, we heard tales of Walder Frey. He's not a man to be trifled with, and if you want to keep your people safe, you must honour the pact you made. That's what being a King means. You will do what you must, because this is bigger than both of us. We are not free to want what we want."

_Who we want, _her tone seemed to say.

He nodded, knowing she was right, though it killed him to admit it.

"And what of you?"

"I will marry Joffrey. I will fulfill my duty... all the while, praying for you."

He kissed her again. He was a gruff Northerner, not good with his words the way she was, but he hoped his kiss portrayed everything he couldn't bring himself to say.

"Do you hate me?" she asked tearfully when they broke away, a flash of vulnerability sweeping across her beautiful face.

"No," he answered easily, "I understand."

She nodded, closing her eyes and leaning into his hand, "I will never forget you."

He felt her promise in his chest, like a fist around his heart.

"You have made me love you," he murmured. His voice was soft, but it was an accusation nonetheless, "just as you make everyone love you. You look so innocent, so lovely, but you are plotting every second. Don't think I don't see how clever you are, how shrewd. In another life, I would welcome your council. Together, we'd be difficult to defeat. But you are a Tyrell, through and through, just as I am a Stark. We do what we must, to protect our family."

Margaery nodded and pressed a delicate hand to his bare chest, her palm covering his heart.

"You must live," she ordered, "promise me."

He couldn't possibly, but he did all the same.

"Aye, I promise."

"You leave tomorrow?"

He gave another solemn nod.

"Then hold me tonight."

Robb Stark rode from Kings Landing on a Tuesday.

There was no procession, no fan fare. He wanted it that way. The Lannisters wanted him gone, and he yearned for home. He was happy enough to escape with his life, and the journey had been a success in most respects. He had rid himself of a Lannister his people hated and his eldest sister was safe with Jon. Arya was still missing, but she was a resourceful girl, and he was confident she could keep herself alive until he got to her. The Lannisters believed themselves to be secure on the Iron Throne, the King in the North's thirst for revenge sated by the return of his sister.

He would return to the North and build his armies, quietly patching together a plan, attacking when they least expected it. Jon once said there was no honour in attacking the enemy when their back was turned, but they weren't boys anymore, playing with wooden swords. Robb had stunned them once, leading surprise attacks and showing a military prowess that far exceeded his age.

He and Jon had already begun to carve names for themselves - the brothers who rode into battle with their direwolves by their sides, whose bravery resulted in the Northerners seeing them as larger than life figures. The Young Wolf and The White Wolf, they called them. Their actions created lore throughout the Seven Kingdoms, sticking to them like wildfire.

His men worshiped him in a way Joffrey's men did not, and this would be essential in the wars to come.

Everything had gone according to plan.

_And yet -_

He allowed himself to turn back once. Just once - and saw Margaery standing in an arched window of the Red Keep.

He had gained everything, and lost everything, all at once.

She touched her hand to her side, giving him a pointed nod, and his hands travelled to the same spot on his own body. There, tucked safely inside a pocket he didn't know he had, was a red rose.

He didn't remove it, aware of prying eyes, but he clutched it in his hand all the same. He gave her a nod back, one that confirmed he'd found her gift. She smiled, but even from such a distance away, he could tell it didn't reach her eyes.

He tore his gaze away and kicked his horse into a gallop, trying not to notice how Greywind cried beside him.

He didn't look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please allow some suspension of disbelief with regards to the wars and the Lannisters letting Robb leave Kings Landing, and the geographical etc errors that I'm sure I made - I wanted to write a Robb/Margaery story and am a sucker for star-crossed/forbidden love, but I get Tywin probs wouldn't have made peace with Robb in this fashion. But that's why it's fiction, huh! We'll see what Jon and Sansa have been up to next, the chapter is already half written so should be up in the next few days. Hope you enjoyed this one :)


	2. Jon

**II. JON**

_She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still... "I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again."_

_\- Sansa Stark, A Feast for Crows_

Jon had never held Sansa Stark.

He'd held Arya too many times to count. When angry tears of frustration prickled at her eyes because she couldn't sew properly - or more to the point, didn't want to. After he'd dragged her back from the godswood by the scruff of her neck, telling her he'd teach her how to use his sword when she was old enough. When they said goodbye the day she left for the South with their father and he gave her Needle.

He'd held Bran and Rickon, too. When Bran fell from a tree he shouldn't have been climbing, leaving his knee bruised and bloody. After he'd snapped at Rickon for impatiently tugging at his jerkin, insistent on playing with him.

He often embraced Robb when the thrill of battle still roared through their veins, their muscles screaming from the pain, mud and blood still smeared across their faces.

Yet, through it all, through all those years at Winterfell, Jon had never _once_ held Sansa.

She was a stranger to him; this pretty, highborn girl who looked at him with eyes as cold as her mother's. He wished for her to be safe, always, but he couldn't say he was sorry to see her go the day she left for Kings Landing. Not the way he was sorry about Arya. He had, however, disliked Joffrey from the moment he met him. Even back then, he had thought Sansa deserved better.

Now, as his body tried to adjust to the foreign feel of her in his arms, he knew his suspicions had been right.

Joffrey was a monster.

"Put your arms around me, Jon," he heard her whisper, her tears rolling down his armour like rain. His muscles worked on instinct, a frazzled disconnect between his brain and his body, and his arms snaked their way around her. He anchored her to him with one hand on the small of her back and the other wrapped up in her hair. She looked like Margaery Tyrell, he thought sourly, and his fingers were unraveling her elaborate, Southern up-do without him even realising it. 

As the Lannisters whispered among themselves, Jon broke away to take her face in his hands. His dark eyes flitted over her and he drank her in, a girl no longer. Her fingers still clutched at him, curled around the sides of his armour, and he brushed away her tears with the pads of his thumbs.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his jaw clenched tight.

She shook her head but his chest shook from where she trembled. Robb took a step towards her, noticing too, and his hand found the small of her back. She relaxed almost immediately.

Robb was a _Stark, _and the touch of her trueborn brother was like a soothing balm, and Jon was sick with jealousy.

He took a step back, putting some distance between them. Sansa loved Robb. From the day she was born, she had idolized him. Jon didn't know how it felt to carry her through the courtyard at Winterfell, giggling on his shoulders, like Robb had. He didn't know how it felt to have her smile at him, or ask him how his day was, or if she could steal his lemon cake after supper. Jon had never even tasted a lemon cake.

Yet, the Sansa he knew would never scream that the King was a liar. She was a lady, prim and proper, and she would never let herself lose control.

Robb whispered a promise to her, their foreheads touching, and Jon felt that hollow emptiness in the pit of his stomach again. Everything was different, and yet so much the same.

"Look after her," Robb asked, more than ordered, when Jon's pleas to let him stay with him fell on deaf ears. He had never been apart from Robb. They'd been best friends since he was old enough to understand what a best friend was, and he worried for Ghost losing Greywind, too.

But Robb's face morphed into the face of the King in the North, and Jon knew better than to argue.

"Always," he promised into his neck instead.

"Farewell, Snow," his brother said when their embrace broke.

"And you, Stark."

Sansa held his hand as they left the Red Keep, and her touch burned as hot and uncomfortable as the South.

Jon stood outside Sansa's chamber door, one hand on Longclaw at his hip, as her handmaidens helped her ready her things.

A slender girl with yellow hair, smaller even than Arya, rushed into the room with her head bowed, but he noticed the way her cheeks burst into heat as her shoulder brushed his. Others were more brazen - another blonde who sent him a flirtatious smile, a brunette and a girl kissed by fire, who giggled when they saw him and rushed into the room with hushed whispers to each other. He gave them all the same expression, uninterested bordering on scornful.

He didn't want their attention. He just wanted to go home.

"What's the North like?" one the bolder ones asked eventually, as he still stood by the door some time later. He craned his neck inside the room to see Sansa still packing a large case, and he gave a sigh under his breath.

_How many clothes can one girl have? _he thought, exasperated.

"Cold," he answered the girl eventually, voice short.

She was undeterred, leaning into him, all flowery scent and southern charm.

"I like your accent," she purred, and he noticed there was a pout to her pretty lips.

"Thanks, yours too," he said it to be polite, and he regretted it when a pleased expression flashed over her face.

"I've heard stories about you," she started, "the White Wolf. You and your brother are already making quite a name for yourselves. I heard you ride into battle with your matching direwolves by your side."

"Aye, that's true enough," he raised a brow, turning his gaze to stare ahead.

She caught her plump bottom lip between her teeth before she continued.

"I heard you can turn into a direwolf yourself if you want."

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. He wondered if all girls were this naive and stupid in the South, and his mind sparked with a devious idea.

He turned to her, that brow still arched and his Stark grey eyes slightly narrowed. She blossomed under his attention, cheeks reddening prettily.

"Aye, you speak true. Robb and I like to turn into wolves so we can eat our Southern enemies. As the King, he favours the taste of Lannister men. I, however..." he leaned in closer, his mouth twitching in amusement as her expression faltered. He reached for her hair and twirled a blonde strand around his finger, "I prefer to feast on pretty young girls with yellow hair."

She let out an annoyed scoff, pushing him back with two hands on his chest. He let himself be moved, returning to his position with his hand on Longclaw.

"You brute," she narrowed her eyes, turning on her heel with a huff.

His face remained impassive as she walked away, but there was a slight quirk to his mouth.

Two minutes later, Sansa appeared at the door, huffing a strand of red hair out of her face.

"Ready?" she asked happily, as though he hadn't been waiting for her for the best part of an hour.

"Aye, I'm ready," he stared at her blankly, before reaching to take both cases from her hands.

She gave them to him and he almost dropped them in shock.

"Seven hells, Sansa!" he cursed, "did you really have to bring the whole of Winterfell with you?"

She blanched, a look of irritation flashing over her features. It was reminiscent of the looks she had reserved for him since they were children.

_This_ was the Sansa he knew.

"I brought only the essentials," she sniffed haughtily.

Jon tried unsuccessfully not to roll his eyes. To him, the essentials were Longclaw and a flagon of ale and Ghost. He wondered how Sansa would fare in the places he had fought - in the thorns at Deepwood Motte, the freezing Dreadfort, the rocky Flint Cliffs. There was no room for fancy dresses, for delicate perfumes or extravagant jewelry there. Then he realised he was being unfair; these were bitter, irrelevant thoughts. Sansa was a lady of Winterfell. She would never know battle. She would never know how it felt to sleep in a cramped, damp tent, or to have the breath knocked from your lungs, or to feel hot, sticky blood run down your face, or to ache so much it hurt to move.

It was his job to make sure she never felt these things.

Robb had trusted him to keep her safe, and keep her safe he would.

A man who could only have been Sandor Clegane met them at the gates.

Jon knew by the burnt scars that covered the left side of his face, painful and grotesque. He was huge, a good two foot taller than Jon, and clearly a man of massive strength. His eyes were grey, but not Stark grey. They were a deathly colour - frightening, fierce and empty. He tried to cover his burned face with his black hair, but it only grew on one side and was too thin for the task. Angry, blistered skin peeked through the greasy strands.

His voice was gruff when he spoke, his top lip curled into a snarl.

"Now I see why you didn't want to leave with me, princess."

Jon's brows drew into a frown, his gaze darting to Sansa to his left. From where she sat atop her snow white mare, she swallowed and didn't look at him. She stared at Clegane - or the Hound, as he was so often called - and Jon noticed how though she was clearly scared, she sat a little taller in the saddle.

"Please let us pass, Sandor. By the King's grace, I am free to go home."

Jon was momentarily stunned by the use of the Hound's name, by the sweetness of her voice, her kind tone. Clegane looked surprised too, and Jon watched him falter for a moment before he gained control of himself. His mouth tipped into a sinister smile.

"You should have said..." he drawled lightly, "...back when I offered to sneak you out of Kings Landing... that you had a pretty knight on his way to rescue you."

His tone was haughty and flippant, but Jon could see through it. Clegane was hurt, betrayed and maybe even a little jealous. Jon's brow arched and for the first (but not the last) time, he wondered what trouble Sansa had got herself into here.

"I am no knight," he insisted.

Clegane didn't look at him, his cruel eyes focused on Sansa.

"My half-brother," she told him, "Jon Snow."

_Half-brother... _even after all these years, the word was still a punch to his gut. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Clegane glanced at him then, eyes sweeping over him contemptuously.

"The Bastard of Winterfell," he sneered in recognition, "you think you can keep her safe?"

"_I think _it's none of your business," Jon replied, wondering again what this man was to Sansa. He kicked his horse on, his anger flaring when the Hound grabbed the horse's bridle and held it back.

"Sandor," Sansa tried his name again, stern and scolding, and Jon knew that voice. It was the voice she used when he accidentally spilled wine on her dress at supper, or when Arya stole her slippers, or when Bran wouldn't share his toys with Rickon. "Jon is _family, _he'll keep me safe. Thank you for all you have done for me. I understand you are scornful of my polished, childish view of knighthood and honour. You have shown me savage truths that have helped me to grow up. The girl who leaves Kings Landing is not the girl who arrived."

Jon stared at her, his surprise only rivaled by Clegane's.

Finally, he took a step to his left and gestured for them to pass.

"Goodbye, Sandor," she said softly as she passed him. A short nod was all she received in reply.

As Jon followed, Clegane's smile turned sinister, lifting his sharp cheekbones. He grabbed the strap of the bridle on Jon's horse again, making the horse whinny as it was jerked backwards.

"Look after her," he ordered, and Jon's blood ran cold at the realization this horrible man cared about his sister, "she is but a little bird... and little birds don't fare well outside their gilded cages."

Jon stared down at him with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched tight.

Sandor Clegane didn't know her.

He wasn't there when she was making Lady Catelyn sick in the morning, glowing her skin and rounding her belly. He didn't know which dress was her favourite or that she liked Bran's singing best, or that she loved lemon cakes. He didn't know that she loved Robb the most, or that her nose scrunched up when she was annoyed, or that she cried when Rickon was born.

Jon had known her since the day she opened her eyes on the world, and even before that.

He didn't need Sandor Clegane's advice.

"She's not a bird," he said, his Northern brogue lower than usual, "she's a wolf."

They walked on, breaching the gates, leaving Sandor Clegane and Kings Landing behind.

They rode for an hour in silence down the Kingsroad.

Eventually Sansa broke it, her voice timid.

"I heard what you said to Sandor," her eyes darted to look at him for a mere second before she turned away uncomfortably, "about me being a wolf. He used to frighten me. I remember he escorted me back to my chambers once, after a joust. I made the mistake of calling him Ser Sandor, and telling him he rode gallantly. He told me he spat on the knights and their vows. That he was no Ser. He said I was like one of those birds from the Summer Isles. A pretty talking bird, repeating all the pretty words they taught me."

Jon rode on silently, unsure of what to say, and his eyes remained fixed on the dusty Kingsroad.

"He was right," her voice broke then, a soft sob welling in her throat, "I'm not a wolf. Not like father was. Not like you or Robb, or Bran, or even Arya. Kings Landing wasn't like the songs. Joffrey wasn't like the golden princes in the stories Septa Mordane told me. I'm just a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns. I'm nothing."

Jon bristled in his saddle, his eyes darting to her. He watched tears roll down her pale cheeks, watched her knuckles turn white from how hard she gripped the reigns, and he didn't know to comfort her. Quiet and reserved, he was never good at that sort of thing.

He wished Robb were here. Robb always knew what to say. He knew how to make things better.

But the words still stung in his chest, making his armour feel too tight, so he just said what he felt and hoped it would be right.

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Ned Stark's trueborn daughter. You are of the North and you _are _a wolf. You are," he added fiercely at her expression, "even if you don't feel like one at the moment. We can't change who we are."

"You did," she whispered tearfully, "you were a bastard, born in the South, and now you sit by the King in the North's side. His second in command."

He didn't know what to say to that either, so he just gave a curt nod and murmured, "just wait until we get to Winterfell. Everything will be the way it's supposed to be."

Sansa nodded, but she didn't look sure. Jon wasn't sure himself. He didn't know what the hell he was doing.

She returned her gaze to the Kingsroad and they rode in silence until they reached Harrenhal.

Jon whistled.

He heard the faint sound of soft paws on wet leaves, and then Ghost emerged from the green. He sniffed the air and growled.

The sight of him made Sansa gasp, and then she was crying again.

Jon frowned, incredulous.

"Do you cry at _everything_?" he asked, "I don't understand. You know the wolves. You loved Lady."

He had spoken before really thinking, and the sound of the direwolf's name made him pause. Suddenly he realised he hadn't seen Lady once, not since she was a pup and had left Winterfell at Sansa's side.

Lady was the best of them, loyal and well behaved and sweet like Sansa. Not that Jon would ever tell her that.

The wolf never left her, every inch her protector, just like Greywind protected Robb and Ghost protected him. If she were alive, she would be here now, and Jon's stomach knotted with a strange mixture of guilt and grief before Sansa could even confirm it.

She sat cross legged against a tree where they had stopped to rest. He watched her pick at the grass and stubbornly bite into her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

Jon's gut flared with remorse again.

"Father killed her," she sniffled, her despair mixed with anger at his thoughtlessness.

"Seven hells," he ran a hand through his hair uncomfortably, and the thought of losing Ghost made his blood run cold. He dropped to his haunches, scratching the animal behind his ear, "why would he do such a thing?"

The direwolves protected the Starks. Ghost was a constant presence at his side, his muzzle wet with blood as he cut down enemies who would hurt him. Greywind often patrolled outside Robb's tent, snarling at intruders and keeping him safe as he slept. Summer had sat at the foot of Bran's bed for months after his fall, tearing apart the man who sought to murder the young boy. Five wolves for the five Stark children, the sigil of their house.

_They were meant to have them_, he'd told father. He couldn't understand why Ned would murder one of them, leaving his daughter unprotected and sad and alone.

"He had to," Sansa elaborated tearfully, "Arya and Joffrey fought, and Nymeria bit him-" _Nymeria protected Arya, "-_but Nymeria ran away and Queen Cersei demanded a direwolf's head. Father didn't want to, but he had no choice."

Jon sighed, shaking his head slightly as he sat down on the grass opposite her. Ghost laid his heavy head in his lap, giving a soft purr, and Jon's fingers stroked absentmindedly through his fur as Sansa continued speaking.

"I didn't blame Father. I didn't even blame Joffrey," her cheeks reddened in anger at her own foolishness, "I blamed Arya. I hated her, Jon. I hated my own sister... and now she's gone and I have no-one. It's all my fault."

She was freely crying again and her eyes were so red, Jon thought they must have been sore. He still didn't know what to say, and the mention of Arya sent a sharp pang of longing through his chest.

"You were just a scared little girl, I understand. It's not your fault," he said softly, "and you have me, Sansa, _always_. I'm right here. We will find Arya. We will."

They had to, for he couldn't live without her.

Sansa stared at him, trying to read the expression that had passed over his face. She read it well, already knowing him a little better than before.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, glancing to the hands she had clasped in her lap.

"For what?"

"For not being her. I'm sorry you came to rescue her and only found me. I know you always loved Arya more."

He saw no point in lying to her, but it wasn't the whole truth.

"I'm not sorry," he said, "Aye, I came for Arya, but I came for you too. I'll never be sorry for finding you_, _Sansa."

Sansa glanced up at him from under wet lashes. Somehow, her eyes were a sharper blue after her tears had tried and her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Her mouth twitched slightly before breaking into a blinding smile. Jon felt it in his chest, a strange stirring sensation, and he pushed it down before he could truly think about what it meant.

Ghost padded over to her then, sniffing her curiously before laying his head in her lap. That smile widened even further, a delighted laugh falling from her lips, and she leaned down and wrapped her arms around the animal's neck.

_Lovely, _the word sparked through Jon's mind before he could stop it.

She looked lovely and radiant and softer than he remembered.

He pushed that thought down too.

They camped near Lord Harroway's Town, a tent of Jon's making sheltering them from the summer rain.

It was cramped, barely enough room for two, and he felt the heat of her beside him and _there it was again, _that strange pull in the pit of his belly.

He hadn't slept well since he was a boy, his mind too full of dark memories, and so he was awake to hear Sansa's first whimper.

_Gods, _he thought with a sigh, running a hand over his tired face, _she even cries in her sleep._

He laid still, as lost as to how to help her as he was when she was awake, and he blinked uselessly at the ceiling of the tent.

Eventually she stirred, jolting herself awake with her own strangled gasp.

"Are you alright?" Jon murmured in the dark, his voice soft and low.

He heard her swallow, her breathing returning to normal.

"I dreamed of Bran," she whispered brokenly, "I saw him laughing."

Jon felt her words in his chest, a sharp ache squeezing around his heart and floating outwards until it seeped into every limb.

She _had_ changed, that much was clear. The Sansa he grew up with cared little for anyone else, even her family. She was selfish and immature and even a little cruel. She intimidated him as much as she infuriated him, this pretty, highborn girl who was too good to even be in his presence, and he can't imagine she ever dreamed of Bran back then.

"He'll laugh again," Jon promised, though he wasn't so sure. She had rode from Winterfell first, too upset to even say goodbye to him, and by the time Jon had left him, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, the boy still hadn't smiled.

"He was going to be a knight of the Kingsguard," she whispered, so quiet he barely heard her, "can he still...?"

"No," Jon wouldn't lie to her, "but until Robb has a child of his own, he will be his heir and the Lord of Winterfell. He may raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or write great books to line our libraries, or train as a maester in the citadel..."

_But he'll never run alongside his direwolf again, _Jon thought mournfully. _He'll never ride in a joust against a young knight or lie with a woman or hold his own newborn son in his arms._

"I wish I'd had the strength to say goodbye," she said, but she wasn't crying any more, "I was so very selfish, only thinking about what I want. I want to atone for my sins."

Jon chuckled under his breath; it was a bitter, stunted sound that died in his throat.

He thought about all the men he'd killed then, blood shed in the name of duty and honour, but shed nonetheless, and his voice was hoarse when he said, "Sansa, your sins are few."

"I was awful to you," she pointed out like that should go on the list, "you can admit it. I wish I could change everything."

"Aye, you were occasionally awful," he shrugged, remembering her harsh words, her cold glares from across the dining hall at Winterfell, "but we were children, and I couldn't have been easy to live with. I don't hold it against you."

"Can you forgive me?"

Her voice was small and vulnerable, and his chest felt too tight.

"There's nothing to forgive."

"_Forgive me,_" she tried to order, but her voice trembled.

"Alright," he sighed, "I forgive you."

Their fingertips touched, and Sansa could sleep.

Something stirred in the pit of Jon's stomach at the charged contact, and he found himself more awake than ever.

As the days passed, the sun rising and setting as though the world wasn't falling apart, Jon came to realise the Sansa who left Winterfell was not the same Sansa who left Kings Landing.

She was made of stronger stuff now, her blood turned to ice, her skin from porcelain to steel. Night after night, he listened to her cry until one evening, the tears stopped, as though they had dried up and left her. She spoke only of reaching home, of finding Arya, of avenging father and hoping Robb was faring better in the South than she had.

_It's a cold and unforgiving place,_ she had said.

Jon had pointed out that the sun blared too hot all year round, but Sansa insisted it was cold nonetheless.

Somewhere between the Trident and the Twins, in an inn she insisted they take shelter in, Jon caught sight of something he shouldn't.

She was bathing in one of the rooms. It was probably the first time she'd done it herself, with no handmaidens to aid her, and Jon paced up and down outside, anxious that he had let her out of his sight, even though she was just inside and it was for an hour at most. Once the rushing water had stopped, proof enough that the tub had been filled, he took a step back, settling in a seat opposite the wooden door.

He grabbed a book she had brought with her, perched on the table nearby.

Bored, he flicked through it absentmindedly, rolling his eyes at tale after tale depicting handsome princes, honourable knights, chivalry and undying love. As he read, Ghost lay curled at his feet, his paws scratching the floor. He was restless, Jon realised, and he felt a flare of guilt for keeping him cooped up here. He was just about to stand and let him out when the wolf padded over to the chamber door concealing Sansa and pushed it open slightly with his nose.

"Ghost!" Jon hissed as the door cracked open. He leaned forward, but then Ghost was quiet in the corner of the room, mischief managed, and Jon was frozen.

Having finished her bath, Sansa stood naked in the middle of the room.

Jon's mouth went dry, his eyes widening, and he tried to look away but he just _couldn't._ Heat flared under his skin, burning his cheeks, as his dark eyes swept over the soft arch of her back, her red hair hanging wet down it, curling at the ends. It was so long it almost reached her behind and he tried not to notice what a perfect and round behind it was. Finally, his famous sense of honour broke through and he tore his eyes away. He glued them to the book in his hands, but couldn't keep his gaze from drifting up every few seconds or so, just like a greenboy who sneaks around the back of a brothel.

But Sansa wasn't a whore. She was a lady, highborn and proper - _and naked and wet and beautiful, _his traitorous mind whispered.

His eyes drifted up again without his permission. He followed a droplet of water down from the back of her neck to her shoulder blade to the base of her spine. She lifted her hair, a darker red from the water, to tie it into a knot on the top of her head, before reaching for a robe. As she wrapped it around herself, Jon found himself wondering what she would look like if she turned around. He wondered at the size of her breasts, the colour of her nipples, whether they would swell and darken should he tug at them with his teeth. He looked at her hair again, such a pretty red, and wondered if he would find the same shade between her thighs, if her cunt would grow even wetter when he put his mouth to it-

He cursed under his breath, tearing his eyes away and crashing down to earth with a sickening crunch.

It wouldn't be for him; it would never be for him.

_Sister, _a voice at the back of his mind hissed, _she's your sister._

_Half-sister, _another voice added, darker, sinister.

This was the voice Lady Catelyn had feared, the one that made her insist bastards were wanton and base and born of lust. They sought to ruin young girls, to tarnish their honours.

Jon had never, _ever _wanted to prove her right.

And yet that night, as his hand travelled under the waistband of his breeches to grasp his hard and aching cock, he couldn't deny it was Sansa's face that he saw.

Jon fastened a hastily folded piece of parchment to the crow, watching it soar into the blue sky.

With every flap of its wings, he felt the answering ache in his heart. He wasn't a religious man, but he prayed to the gods, old and new, that it would reach its destination.

"What is it?" Sansa asked softly from where she sat on the ground, not caring that she was dirtying her dress.

"I'm telling Robb we've reached the Trident," he told her, squinting up at the sun.

More specifically, they were at the Ruby Ford, and Sansa was standing now, staring intensely at the glimmering water.

"What is it?" he asked, quirking his brow as he turned to her.

"This is where it all started," she said quietly, "where Robert cut down Prince Rhaegar and took the Seven Kingdoms."

Her stare hardened even further, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though she were trying to find the rubies that had shattered free from Rhaegar's armour the moment Robert had put his warhammer to it.

"Aye, you know that story then."

Her gaze flitted to him, her own brow quirking.

"Everyone knows that story, from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne."

Jon gave a short shrug.

"I don't pay much attention to it. Robert Baratheon was a fool. Rhaegar Targaryen was nothing to me," his blood stirred curiously in his veins, a chill sweeping over his skin, and he shook off the strange sensation.

"It seems wrong though, doesn't it?" her voice was eerily calm and she stared at the water again, "how many people died, how many thousands, because Rhaegar chose our aunt?"

Jon considered it for a moment before his mouth twitched under his beard, a sad expression flitting over his face.

"We can't help who we love."

To his surprise, she scoffed at that.

"Easy for you to say," she huffed, moving slightly down the river bank, "I'm a lady. First I was given to Joffrey. When I get home, I'll be given to the next fancy lord who offers the most prosperous match. Passed around like a broken toy. You are free to love whoever you want to love."

_I'm not,_ he thought darkly, a sense of foreboding passing over him like an ominous shadow.

He didn't say another word.

"I want to learn how to fight," Sansa said one day near the Twins, eyes shining something fierce.

Jon paused, unease settling into his limbs, as he whistled for Ghost.

The wolf came bounding towards them, settling at Sansa's feet with a happy growl. Jon rolled his eyes - _traitor - _and watched as Sansa scratched the animal behind its ears.

"Why?"

"You won't always be around to protect me," she insisted, "and I'm tired of being useless."

"You're not useless, Sansa," he said uncomfortably, trying to get out of this conversation.

"I was in Kings Landing," her brows drew into a frown, "They beat me, they humiliated me. I couldn't defend myself. I couldn't do anything but cry. Isn't that the definition of useless?"

Jon shifted on his feet, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

"I can show you the basics, if you're sure," he found himself giving in as usual, "I can show you what I showed Arya."

Sansa's face lit up with a lovely, triumphant smile and Jon cursed her again.

"Your feet should be further apart," Jon urged, "you don't want to lose your balance. That's good. Now pivot as you deliver the stroke, get all your weight behind the blade."

Sansa lurched forward, the hilt of Jon's spare sword tight in her grip, and found herself stabbing at thin air. Jon had moved, gracefully darting out of the way, and he moved like he was dancing, like he was born to it.

Sansa growled in exasperation.

"Would you _like_ to have stabbed me?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Some hair had escaped her braid and she huffed the red strands out of her face. She wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand and Jon tried not to notice how her breasts heaved with every rapid breath, tried not to dwell on his desire to drag his tongue up her neck, licking away the beads of sweat that gathered there.

He liked her like this, excited and fierce and free, every inch as wild as the direwolf she lost. There was nothing of the prim and restrained Lady of Winterfell in her, and he could see the iron underneath.

"No," she huffed, "but I don't like this sword. Let me try with Longclaw."

Jon shook his head smoothly, a small click to his tongue.

"Longclaw is too heavy for you. We fight with what we have."

"You could have one made for me," she shrugged, "like you did for Arya."

Jon quirked a brow. "She told you that?"

Sansa rolled her eyes.

"No, but I figured. I told father it was you who gave it to her."

This time, it was Jon's turn to roll his eyes and he shifted on his feet, easily blocking another of her stabs with the sword.

"Of course you did."

"He didn't believe me."

Jon smirked at that, unsheathing Longclaw.

"Come on. Let's see what you've got."

Sansa's mouth tipped into a lopsided grin and she bounced on the balls of her feet. She held the sword out to him, resting the point on his chest, just above his heart.

Still smirking, he knocked the sword to the side, and they began to spar. He went at halfspeed, barely concentrating and easily blocking all of her moves, and still she couldn't keep up.

"Good defense is about moving the line of attack," he said as they moved in circles, "when an attacker comes at you, step off the line like this," he danced to the side, "creating a new one. Every time you do, your opponent will be forced to adjust."

Sansa had always been a model student, delighting Septa Mordane who in-turn raged at Arya's insolence, and she was a fast learner. She fought valiantly for a while at least, before her arm clearly tired and her gaze flickered to a pretty songbird to her left.

Jon took advantage of her distraction, knocking her sword out of her hands and grabbing her. He took her by the arm, twirling her until her back was at his front, and then he sheathed his sword and held her to his body as she wriggled.

"Don't take your eyes off the enemy," he murmured, hot in her ear, and he heard her breath hitch, "never let yourself get distracted."

His left hand held her hip as the fingers of his right entwined with hers, held tightly at her chest. Under their hands, he could feel her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage. 

As her breathing slowed, her fingers tightened around his. Something shifted in the air, the atmosphere thinning, and Jon's throat suddenly felt very dry.

Inexplicably, she began to move.

At first, it was a shift of her hips, so tiny he barely registered it. But then she was breathing heavier and he heard her swallow and there was no mistaking the way she pushed her behind into him. Jon almost bit his tongue as she moved her hips and wordlessly ground against the increasing hardness in his breeches. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat, and his body moved through instinct.

The fingers of his left hand dug harder into her hipbone, pushing her away and pulling her closer at the same time. His blood rushed south, straight to his cock, and he thought she must have been able to feel it, straining hard as Valerian steel against her ass. She pushed back harder, tiny circles of her hips, and he bit back a groan. She brought his other hand higher, covering her breast with it, and urged him to squeeze.

Against his better judgment, he did, and he was rewarded with a breathy sigh.

He needed to stop this. It was wordless and unbearably hot and heavy and _wrong._ He needed to stop before he came in his breeches like a greenboy, surrounded by the scent of her, so ingrained in his skin he'd never be able to touch himself and imagine a faceless woman again.

As he thrust his hips to meet her, his hand trailing dangerously low down her stomach, she suddenly lurched forwards and the heat of her was gone.

He blinked, useless for a moment, his mind blank, before he felt the kiss of metal under his chin.

She was grinning at him, triumphant as she held Longclaw to his neck. His gaze darted down to his side where he saw the empty case on his hip.

"We fight with what we have," she smirked, throwing his words back at him, "never let yourself get distracted."

He had lost, that much was true, but he noticed how even though she might insist it was a game, she trembled before him and her eyes were blown to black.

Jon had hoped Sansa would never have to use what he taught her.

He hoped he'd always be there to keep her safe, the way he promised Robb. He hoped she'd never know how it felt to take a life, how the guilt ate away at you until you feared there'd be nothing left.

And yet, in a scrap just before they reached the Twins, Sansa took her first life.

It was a group of robbers - four to be precise. They were looking for food, horses and shelter. Sansa kept her Tully hair hidden under her cloak, unable to make out a sigil on a banner, unable to tell who they fought for, and Jon insisted they had little to offer.

"You have food and horses," one of them smirked, gesturing to both things, before his smile curled into something more sinister, "and you have a woman."

Something dark passed over Jon's face, his jaw clenching into a strong line, and his fingers itched to fight.

His sharp eyes looked for a banner once more, for a lion or perhaps a stag, but he found nothing. They fought only for themselves, and they descended upon them quickly, seeing only one man and a frightened, meek maiden.

But they hadn't met Jon - and he wasn't the only one they underestimated.

Jon took two of them. The first was quick and easy; Longclaw sliced the air and opened his throat. As the man gurgled on hot blood and fell to his knees, Jon turned and traded hand to hand blows with the other one. An elbow to his already crooked nose, a swift and brutal headbutt. Ghost was on the third, tackling him with a fierce growl. He fell back into the river with a splash and a scream, flailing wildly as his head went under. Ghost leapt in after him, and the clear blue water turned red where they had vanished.

As Jon fought, he kept Sansa in the corner of his eye, his insides screaming that he couldn't get to her.

The final man, dirty and reeking of stale sweat, was descending upon her. She had been knocked to the ground and she scrambled backwards, staring up at him in fear.

Jon threw his head back, making the attacker behind him cry out and keel over, clutching his bloody nose. He spat out a broken tooth. Jon swept the man's legs out from under him next, sending him tumbling to the floor. Blind with rage, he barely heard him begging. His pleas turned to groans as Jon lifted his blade with two hands and drove it down and in with all his weight behind it, under the arm and through the ribs.

Jon stood motionless for a beat, limbs trembling with exertion and fury. His heart pounded against his ribcage and he felt sticky blood run down his face, caught in his brows and eyelashes, and he blinked it away. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, painting the skin red, as he looked for Sansa.

Panic kicked at him like a mule as he saw her motionless on the ground, the man heavy on top of her.

He went to her, throwing the man off her. He was a dead weight, Jon realised, and as the man slumped to the ground beside them, his eyes stared unblinkingly at the sky.

Sansa shivered and sat up, blood staining the front of her dress. Jon pulled her by the arm until she was upright, and then held the tops of her arms, frantically surveying her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked and realised he was clutching her too hard. The marks from his fingers turned white on her skin as he pulled them away, before they disappeared.

"I killed him," she whispered, and it was at this moment that Jon noticed the small dagger in her hand, its blade dripping with blood. He'd given it to her at her insistence, hoping she'd never have to use it, and now he was grateful she'd pestered him so much he had to listen.

"He had you and he was going to hurt you," Jon murmured in justification, trying to find her eyes. When he did, the emptiness in them made his brows furrow.

Ghost emerged from the stream, dripping wet. He shook the water off and padded over to them, as though he wanted to provide her with his own comfort.

Sansa nodded - and Jon held her for the second time in his life.

He pulled her in, one hand on the back of her head and the other on the small of her back, and she buried her nose in the hollow of his throat.

She was limp and silent, but he felt his skin dampen with her tears.

"There's blood on my hands," she whispered that night, hours after they washed in a nearby river, "I can't get it off."

Jon frowned, turning to her in the darkness.

The strike of a wick as he lit a candle punctured the silence and then she was there, melancholy and lovely and flickering in half darkness.

He took her hands in his, gently turning them over, and saw them soft and clean. His chest felt too tight and she was right in front of him but still, he grieved for her. He grieved for the innocent and naive girl he knew, a girl he hadn't even liked, a girl she would never be again.

He didn't say a word. He just tugged at her hands and brought her fingers to his mouth.

He held her wrist and kissed each one.

When he was done, his soft mouth having touched the pads of each finger, he gave her hands back to her, placing them in her lap.

"It's still there," she insisted in a whisper - and he could have sworn her voice was lower, husky and hoarse.

His eyes connected with hers for the first time, and the atmosphere blistered.

She made the first move, lifting her hand to his mouth again.

Their eyes connected again, darkened blue on stormy grey, and he flicked his tongue against her index finger. He saw her inhale, her gaze flickering from his eyes to his mouth and back again, before she pressed her finger against his lips again.

He didn't think about how this was crossing a boundary. He _couldn't _think, couldn't even breathe. He just took her finger in his mouth and wrapped his tongue around it. He watched her eyelids flutter, pupils dilating, as he took the next finger into his mouth, and the next. One by one, his lips and tongue expunged her of her sin and damned him to a new one.

The air felt potent and heady, everything burning too hot. Her gaze burned into him and she inhaled again and _he knew that look_. Girls had been looking at him like that since he grew out of that awkward, lanky phase and into his strong muscles and dark curls.

She _wanted_ him, he realised, and he wanted her too.

It wasn't innocent. Perhaps it never had been.

With one more heated suck, he let go of her finger.

"Better?" he heard his voice - all low and heavy and Northern gruff.

He watched the movement of her graceful throat as she swallowed.

"Better."

"And why should I let you stay, drinking my beer, eating my food, gawking at my daughters?"

Jon fought back his wince at Walder Frey's prickly words. His eyes swept over the mediocre hall, taking in said daughters. He was an honourable man and he would never disgrace a lady by calling her unattractive, but Walder Frey didn't have anything to worry about when it came to his daughters and Jon keeping his hands to himself.

"You made an alliance with my mother and brother," Sansa spoke then, her voice strong and authoritative, "Robb will marry your daughter any day now, as my sister will marry your son. These were generous terms for safe passage across the Crossing. In light of this, surely you would not begrudge us some shelter for the night?"

Walder's dark eyes flitted to her then, and Jon didn't like the way he leered at her.

"Yes, you must be her daughter," he said, more to himself than to her, "you have her hair... and her temperament."

His expression, like sucking on a lemon, coupled with the way he grumbled implied this wasn't a compliment.

"You are quite the beauty," he added, smacking his lips in a way that made Jon cringe, "I'm sorry my sons, it appears I secured for you the wrong daughter! No matter, perhaps I'll take this one for myself."

Jon stepped forward, his top lip curling.

"Careful, my Lord," he rumbled, "you may have an agreement with my brother, the King, but don't overstep yourself."

Walder gave a dismissive wave, as though he could bat Jon's words away.

Then he was clapping his decrepit hands and arranging chambers for them for the night.

"Poor Robb," Sansa laughed a few hours later, when she had snuck into his borrowed chamber because she didn't want to be alone - and he'd said yes, because his new norm was being physically unable to say no to her. 

Jon's mouth twitched under his beard.

They sat cross legged on the bed opposite each other, and Jon's skin prickled at the proximity.

It felt significant, like they had been leading up to something, and Jon feared what.

"Poor Robb indeed."

"And poor Arya."

Jon's smile was sadder then. "Aye, poor Arya."

"I never thought I'd feel more sorry for those two than Bran."

He arched a brow, "have your dreams stopped then?"

Sansa considered this for a moment before she shrugged.

"No, I still dream about him. But I thought about what you said - and you were right. A land needs all sorts of people. We're wolves of Winterfell and we can't help who we are. No-one can make Bran a knight now, but his life isn't over. You can't hammer tin into iron, no matter how hard you beat it, but that doesn't mean tin is useless."

He blinked at her for a moment, speechless.

"What?" she laughed breathlessly, eyes searching his face to try and decipher his expression.

"You really have changed," he murmured and he watched her expression morph into something more serious.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you dream about Bran and you worry about Arya. Because I haven't heard you talk about knights or golden princes or the intricacies of needlework once. Because you were kind to the Hound and you said sorry to me. Because that man the other day was trying to rob you and surely would have raped you, and yet still, you cried for him. There is little left of the girl I grew up with."

She held his eyes for a beat, the air hanging heavy between them, before she tore her gaze away.

"You never even saw me then," she whispered on a humourless laugh.

He wouldn't let her run away. Not this time. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look at him.

"I see you now," he murmured.

He didn't know what to expect. He thought she might laugh, might protest and insist she was still that selfish girl deep down. He thought she might cry, need his embrace again. He thought maybe she wouldn't react at all.

What he didn't expect - what he could never have imagined - is that she would lean forward and place her mouth on his.

He froze, still beneath her prying lips. She shifted, moving to her knees on the bed, and her hands came to bracket his face. Through his haze, he noticed they were trembling, but still he couldn't move. He couldn't even _breathe._

Her tongue swept across his bottom lip and it had the same effect as a bucket of ice water thrown over his head.

"Sansa," he tipped his head back and away, eyes gently screwing shut, "what are you doing?"

"I don't know," she admitted breathlessly, and her darkened gaze flickered from his eyes to his mouth and back again, "I just know that something's changed between us. Something's not the same. I know that this year has been the worst year of my life and everyone thinks I'm this _stupid, _naive little girl. Maybe I was once. But somewhere along the way I... _wasn't _anymore... and you're the only one who's noticed. I know that father is dead and Arya's missing and Robb might not come home and everything, _everything _is wrong."

"Sansa..."

"You're not the same either. You're brave and loyal and you look after me. When I talk, you _listen_, and you're the only one who actually looks at me and _sees _me... so please. You can say no, but... don't say no."

Jon's eyes and throat burned and he was going to say no, he _was- _but then she was looking at him like that again, and he was tired of being cold and broken and alone.

"It's wrong," he tried once more.

"It's the only thing that's right," she countered - and then her mouth was on his again.

She kissed him and stole the last shreds of his control. His hands came up to her face, feeling the heat of her skin, and he tugged her closer still. His tongue licked along her bottom lip and she blossomed under his touch, opening her mouth for him.

He fought back a groan at the first taste of her, sweet and heady on his tongue. Their tongues entwined, fighting for dominance, as she shifted and climbed into his lap. She spread her legs and ground against the hardness in his breeches, and he released a grunt into her mouth.

The noise made her draw back, glancing at him curiously. Her breasts rose and fell with the rapidity of her breaths and her pupils were blown, leaving only a thin circle of piercing blue.

She held his gaze as her hand travelled between them - and then she was covering his aching hardness with her palm. He bit back a curse as he bucked into her hand, his mouth latching onto her neck. He left open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, stopping to bite back a groan as she rubbed him with small circles of her hand.

He felt her tremble as she started to unlace his breeches, returning her mouth to his.

Whether it was the action itself, the way she shook with nerves, or Ned and Robb's stern faces flashing before his eyes, Jon came back down to Earth with a sickening crunch.

"No," he jolted away from her, standing at the foot of the bed and running a shaky hand through his curls. She twirled on the bed, her brows furrowed in confusion, her lips pretty pink and swollen.

"You said I have you," her voice was accusing, her eyes shining angry and hurt, "_always._"

His head kind of rolled to the side and a sound came out of his chest like he shouldn't have said that - but he _did_, and he couldn't take it away now.

"Not for that," he modified, and he trembled as much as she did. "I'm your _brother_."

Something passed over her face then, dark and angry. She looked almost betrayed.

She stood, brushing herself off.

"Half-brother," she spat, even colder than when they were children, and then she was gone, her words cutting into him colder than the North in winter.

He stood still, heart aching and cock as hard as Valerian steel.

If that was the right thing to do, he thought, it sure as hell didn't feel like it.

She tried again the next night, her movements more seductive this time.

Jon almost wanted to laugh. She didn't need to _seduce _him; he was already one step away from madness, just being around her. He didn't think this was what Robb had in mind when he trusted him with her, and he shuddered at the thought of what his brother would to do him if he could see them now.

"Don't you think I'm pretty?" she asked, taking a step towards him.

"Everyone tells you you're beautiful."

Sansa was undeterred, her brow arching.

"I'm not asking everyone," she murmured, and her hand darted to his chest, resting just above his heart, "I'm asking you."

Jon sighed, running a tired hand over his face. He saw no point in lying to her.

"Aye, I think you're pretty. I always thought you were pretty. That's not the issue."

"You did? I thought you hated me."

"I never hated you," he insisted, "I loved you. I didn't _like _you very much most of the time, but all I ever wanted was to be one of you."

Something akin to guilt flickered over her features before her finger danced up his chest. It came to rest on the soft fabric of his cloak, where a direwolf lay carved into the strap. She traced it, melancholy and soft.

"How could anyone call you anything other than a wolf?" she whispered, heated gaze flickering to his.

She leaned into him again, her mouth tracing the strong line of his jaw. Her deft fingers unclipped his cloak and the leather whispered as it broke, fluttering to the floor and piercing the silence. He let his eyes drift shut, his control stretching thin like a rubber band about to bend and snap, and still, her mouth brushed hotly against his jaw.

"I can't," he murmured, but his hands were anchoring themselves on her waist, pulling her in.

"You can," she muttered into the hollow of his throat.

She kissed the skin there, dragging her mouth to his.

He lurched back, his fingers curling hot around her wrist.

"Gods," he muttered, "I'm not some kind of hero, Sansa. Not yours."

She said she'd changed, but she was still looking at him like she was a lost princess and he was her knight in shining armour. He wasn't. He wouldn't get down on his knee for her or sing her songs or ask her for a favour before he rode off to battle. They were of the North, those tales half a world away.

"That's exactly what you are," she insisted stubbornly, and she tugged him closer still.

His chin ticked to the side and he bit the corner of his lip.

Then she kissed him and, despite his protestations, despite his lost honour, he kissed her back, because he didn't have the strength to deny this anymore. He didn't have the strength to stay away from her.

She hummed into his mouth, pleased at his surrender. He didn't make a noise back, just slanted his mouth over hers and licked his tongue inside the hot cavern of her mouth.

"Lay down," he said, referring to the bed behind her and she did, still staring at him like the saviour he wasn't. He watched her chest rise and fall, her breasts straining against the fabric, and fought the urge to adjust himself in his breeches. She rested on her forearms, her gaze darkened and hooded, as he moved to kneel before her.

He sighed as he lifted her calves, making her lay her feet flat on the bed. His hands spread her legs before pushing the fabric of her dress up, making it pool above her bent knees.

Sansa's eyes closed but Jon kept his open. He wanted to watch, wanted to see the things he could do to her and the places he could take her.

"I'm going to burn in all seven hells," he muttered and his hand went between her wet thighs.

He bit back a groan when he felt her soaked through her smallclothes. He pulled them down her legs with hardly any hesitation, too far gone to stop now. He thought he heard her whisper his name, but he couldn't be sure. She was all he could see, and his cock stirred in his breeches at the revelation her hair _was _the same shade of red down there. He spread her with his thumb and forefinger, his gaze burning into her, hot and almost curious.

It had been years since his first and only trip to Wintertown, back when he came close with a whore named Ros, but couldn't go through with it. He heard Theon and Robb's laughter echoing in the back of his mind, taunting him, mocking him, but he pushed it back. After-all, Theon was an ass, and Robb wouldn't be laughing now.

"Pretty," he spoke to her cunt without realising it, and Sansa hummed in response.

He slid his index finger down her slit, making her buck her hips. A soft moan fell from her lips, catching in her throat, and he committed it to memory. She spread her legs wider, wordlessly asking for more, and he obliged, two calloused fingers spreading her wetness before gently plunging inside her.

Sansa cursed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She trembled slightly and Jon wanted more, wanted to _give _her more, and he remembered what Ros had taught him before he let it go any further. It was a lesson he was sure she had taught Robb too, for more than once he had caught a pretty serving girl rushing out of his brother's room, red faced and panting while Robb wiped at his mouth.

He shifted slightly and put his mouth on her then. Sansa sucked in a sharp breath, her head tipping back, as he pushed his tongue inside of her, then outside, but further up, in the spot Ros said made a girl's elbows go tense and their legs go weak.

He lapped at her insistently, buried between her thighs. He felt her hands tangle in his hair, tugging at his curls too tight to be comfortable, and he grunted into her. She tugged and pulled, practically sobbing her pleasure, as his teeth scraped against her sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Jon," she whimpered, her thighs trembling around his head.

He licked at her again, a hot stripe from her hole to her clit. When he lifted his head to look at her, his eyes were so dark they were practically black, and his lips and beard glistened with her slick.

The sight made her blush and Jon bit back a groan. He returned to his task, inserting a finger inside her and keeping his mouth there too. Sansa made a crying noise, keening against the bed, and her hand went back to his curls. He slid another finger inside her and nibbled at her swollen clit.

"Jon, I'm gonna..." she trailed off, unable to make sense of what was happening to her.

"It's okay," Jon hummed into her cunt, the vibrations sending shockwaves from her head to her toes, "come for me, Sansa."

She obeyed instantly, her toes curling and her back arching off the bed. Between broken sobs of pleasure, his name became her mantra, and she repeated it like a prayer. He slung an arm over her stomach to keep her still while he lapped at her, his tongue wringing her like a wet rag, coaxing the last of her pleasure.

Slick coated his tongue and she moaned at her taste when he crawled up her body and kissed her.

He stared at her as she opened her eyes, gazing at him through hooded eyes and sending him a blinding, lazy smile.

He couldn't regret a thing, not when Sansa Stark was looking at him like that.

They found Catelyn Stark somewhere between Winterfell and Moat Cailin.

Robb sent word that he would soon be returning, his men free to go home, and Catelyn had heeded, already on her way back to Bran and Rickon.

It was the Stark banners that had Jon riding towards them, his sharp eyes noticing the direwolves that floated in the wind. Sansa had gasped, her eyes widening, and she was off on her horse before Jon could stop her. Not that he wanted to stop her. He rode just as eagerly behind, happy to see her reunited with whatever of Robb's men remained there.

Sansa cried when she saw her lady mother, flinging her arms around her neck, and Catelyn was so relieved, her eyes were warm when they connected with his over Sansa's shoulder.

He wondered if she'd look at him like that if she knew he'd had his face buried in her daughter's cunt for days now, his cock hard and aching to slide between her wet, wanting thighs.

He couldn't wonder for too long, however, as a small body emerged from behind Catelyn.

"Hello brother," Arya Stark murmured, her lips twitching, before a smile lit up her face.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He wondered if he was dreaming, if he'd died on the way to Kings Landing, or on the grass when those robbers attacked them, or suffocated in Sansa's cunt. But then Arya was running towards him and she was in his arms and she was showering kisses all over his face. He felt her everywhere, an ache deep in his bones, and he held her too tight, not wanting to let go.

She moved to Sansa next, telling her sister not to cry and that she was safe and unharmed and going home.

For a moment, the three of them stood together, reunited at last, and Jon was so content, he didn't care that Catelyn Stark's stare had turned to ice again.

Jon was exhausted - in part from the days' ride, in part from the emotions involved in seeing Arya again.

She'd been through a lot, that much was clear, but she was as much Arya Stark as the day she left him, confident and loud, wild and fierce. She had tracked Catelyn down, she said, through sheer will and asking the correct questions to the correct people, and now she was here. Jon could see her and touch her and be with her, _finally. _It didn't seem real.

They were to rest for one night, before they would finally be making the last stretch of the journey home.

_Home, _Jon's chest ached at the thought.

His eyes fluttered shut, just about to let sleep take him, when the opening of his tent flapped open and Sansa was there.

The bed dipped with her weight and she laid down next to him.

"I can't believe we're nearly there," she whispered, her finger tracing absentminded circles on his bare chest, "when Robb arrives, we'll all be together."

_Everything will be the way it's supposed to be, _he remembered his words. They felt like a world away, spoken in a different time. A strange pain kicked at his stomach when he realised he didn't _know _the way things were supposed to be now. In Winterfell, he was a bastard and unloved and unwanted and Sansa barely looked at him. Lady Catelyn treated him like he was a disease, and Bran was broken, and Rickon cried all through the night.

He wanted to go home, but he didn't want _home_ to mean the same thing anymore.

He tangled his fingers in Sansa's hair, gently pulling her face up to look at him.

"Together," he murmured in agreement - but he only wanted to be with her.

He kissed her with closed lips - once for goodnight, and waited for her to leave.

Only, she didn't leave. She swung her leg over his hip and attached her mouth to his neck. She dragged her tongue up, tugging his earlobe between her teeth.

"No, no, no," he groaned, and she pushed into him with her hips, "No Sansa, not tonight..."

She reached down, in between his hips and hers, and rubbed against the bulge in his trousers.

"Sansa... no... _fuck... _okay..."

He tipped his face up and mouthed at her jaw, kissing down to her throat. She sighed contently, hips pushing down and up, tilting her neck so he could gain better access. Ghost howled at the moon outside and Jon heard Lady Catelyn hissing at him to be quiet. Her harsh tone, a tone he knew all too well, brought him back down to reality.

He leaned his forehead into Sansa's throat and held his breath.

"It's okay, she'll go to sleep soon," she whispered, her hands travelling to the laces hanging low on his hips.

"It's not okay-"

"It is," she mouthed at his jaw, "you can be quiet, you can be good. You're so good for me, Jon."

Maybe it was the compliment - because Jon had only ever thought he was bad - or just the way she felt on top of him, but he grabbed her face and kissed her until he was almost delirious.

"You drive me mad," he muttered against her, because where was his chivalry, his honour and sense of morality, where she was concerned? Where was the boy who refused to lay with a woman for fear of creating a bastard, for fear of subjecting his children to the same miserable life he had led? She made him forget it all, made him forget his very _name_ or lack of one, and the worst part was he was powerless to stop.

"The feeling's mutual," she sighed, grinding her hips down onto him. She sat up straight, her thighs bracketing his hips, and lifted her thin night gown over her head. Jon drank her in, naked on top of him at last, and his hands went to her breasts. He cupped them both, fingers tweaking her nipples as she moaned and ground her hips in tiny circles.

He was completely surrendered now, at her mercy, and he let her unlace his trousers with surprisingly steady fingers. He aided her in pushing them down his hips and sat up on his forearms with a quirk of his brow when he noticed she hadn't resumed her position on top of him. Before he could question her, he felt her hot mouth engulf his cock.

"Fuck," he spit out, awarding her a flash of white as he hissed through his teeth. He tipped his head back as she licked a hot stripe up the underside before sucking the tip into her mouth again. His left hand travelled to her hair, his right curling the sheets of the makeshift cot into a fist, and his fingers tangled in the red strands as she bobbed up and down.

"Sansa, you don't have to-" his words rumbled and caught in his chest as she opened her mouth wider and he felt himself hit the back of her throat. He didn't want her to think she owed him anything - that he buried his face between her thighs for any reason other than he loved the taste of her cunt - but judging by her eagerness, she was doing this for the same reason. She hummed around him and the vibrations shot from his cock to his toes as he bucked into her mouth.

"Gods, your mouth feels so good," he half whispered, half groaned, leaning back on his forearms so he could watch her. Her bright blue eyes flickered up to him and he moaned at the sight, his cock twitching and swelling in her mouth. He watched her take more of him, her hands playing with his balls, and he felt them tighten in preparation.

"Sansa, I'm gonna cum," he grunted, "If you don't move, I'm gonna cum in your pretty mouth."

Sansa moaned around him, clearly not adverse to the idea, and the sight of her rubbing her slick thighs together to try and get some relief had him falling off the edge with a strangled groan. He tried to keep quiet as he shot pulse after pulse of hot cum into her mouth, shuddering in the afterglow. Desire flared in his gut again at the sight and feel of her licking him clean, making sure she didn't waste a drop.

She collapsed next to him with a lazy grin, her palm covering her racing heart.

Jon thought it didn't matter that they weren't touching each other anymore - because when you love someone, just lying by their side is enough.

Sansa didn't cry when they rode into Winterfell.

She stayed strong and silent, every inch the reserved Lady she was born to be, but Jon watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed when Rickon launched himself into her arms.

"You're so big," she whispered into his shaggy hair, laying kisses on both his plump cheeks.

She gave Bran his kiss next, soft on his forehead, overdue since the day she left. They said Bran didn't smile much anymore. They said he spent his days staring stoically into space, mourning the life he lost, yet he smiled when his sister kissed him.

Arya attached herself to Jon's side. Where he went, she went, and she became his shadow. She didn't want to let him go again, always begging him to train her in the yard or tell her stories of battle with Robb or sit next to him at supper. He obliged for he had missed her and he loved her deeply, but as the days passed, he saw Sansa out of the corner of his eye, a soft smile curling her lips. It was warm and needy; she hadn't gone back to the coldness of before. It relieved and grieved him, at the same time.

He missed her. She was right in-front of him - on the balcony as he trained, in the crypts next to him as they paid their respects, at the dinner table to his left - yet he missed her so much, it made him panic.

One night, Arya fell asleep. Jon disentangled her from his side, placing her in her chambers before returning to his own, where he found Sansa standing in the middle of the room.

He hesitated for a moment, giving a heavy sigh as he closed the door. It had barely shut before she was on him, grabbing his face and pulling his mouth to hers.

He grunted with surprise, returning her fierce kiss through instinct, muscle memory. She swept her tongue over his bottom lip and he opened for her, letting her deepen the kiss. It was only when her hands fumbled to untie the laces of his breeches that he made her stop, hands gripping her wrists.

"Sansa."

She glanced up at him, pausing for a moment, before her confusion turned to anger. She ripped her hands from his grip and took a step back.

"Really?" she rolled her eyes, "we're really back to that? Jon, I'm sick of trying to justify this to you every time. I'm sick of your _stupid honour_ denying us what we need. I'm sick of following you around like Rickon follows Bran and I just - why can't you just - why do you have to _be _like this?"

He stepped towards her, wrapping his hand around her wrist again.

"Do you have any idea..." he started, voice low and quiet, "what it's like to think about you the way I do? My _stupid honour_ is all I have left."

"You have _me_," she tried.

He shook his head.

"I can't have you. That's the point. What do you think will happen when Robb comes back and finds us like this? Do you think he'll just allow it? You make me feel like a traitor to him and I can't even _let _myself think what father would say and_ I can't stop._ I can't keep my damn hands off you. I can't have you, but I want you anyway. I should stay away from you, but I can't. I care about your feelings and I'm _always _worried about you and I _always _want to be touching you and..."

Sansa smiled, slow at first, and then she laughed in his distraught face.

He flinched and stepped back.

"Do you think this is _funny_?"

She shook her head but the smile was still on her lips. She stepped forward, emblematic of the game they played, one step forward, two steps back, and took his face in her hands.

"We can't help who we love," she threw his words back at him and they hung heavy and significant in the air.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, she could see he was defeated.

"I have nothing to offer you," he said quietly, "you deserve better than sneaking around. Look, maybe we should try and forget what happened between us, leave it on the Kingsroad. We're home now and-"

"-you are my home."

His eyes darted to hers and the sincere look on her face made his eyes and throat burn. He sighed and kissed her then, because that was all he'd ever wanted. To have a home, to have someone, to _really _have someone, who wanted him and loved him and thought he was good and _enough. _He kissed her because he was tired of fighting, because he knew he'd never win this one, and because he was hazy and lost and a little obsessed with her.

He walked her back to his bed, shedding her clothes along the way. Before he knew it, she was naked and so was he, and he wasn't shying away, wasn't saying no.

He covered her with his body, all hard planes and strong muscles, and she cradled him between her thighs. She was the fire to his ice, her kindness and warmth spreading over him like a blanket, making him feel safe and happy and home. He'd never felt that way before.

The tip of his member nudged at her entrance and it became coated with her slick at the soft thrust of his hips. The sensation flared desire in his gut, hot and heavy, and he buried his face in her neck.

"You're wet," he murmured as he felt her dampen his cock again, sliding harder against her cunt.

"I'm ready," she confirmed, spreading her legs wider, urging him inside.

"Are you sure?" he asked once more, though he could feel the heat of her dragging in, and he thought he might cry if she said no.

She didn't say no.

She kissed him, soft and wet, and he guided himself into her heat.

She winced at the pain, a small grunt that had him pausing. When she confirmed she was okay, that the pain had dulled, he moved once more. After a few moments, her winces turned to sighs, each one heavier than the last, and he panted into her neck.

She was tight and hot and wet. He felt her nails dig into his backside as he urged him to fuck her harder, deeper, better. His hips moved in shallow thrusts, his tongue curling around hers, before the sensations were too much and they couldn't stay attached to each other's mouths anymore. Their lips slid hotly against each other, their pants dancing in the small gap between them, as he snapped his hips harder.

"Jon," she whimpered his name, her toes curling. He hitched her thigh higher up his waist, the new angle allowing him to slide into her deeper. He sucked in a breath over his teeth, anxious about spilling already like a greenboy. His fingers trailed down her body, his thumb rubbing hot circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs.

As his fingers trailed down her body, hers trailed down his. She came to pause at a scar just above his heart, the pads of her fingers running across the raised skin.

"Don't be sad for me," he breathed into her mouth, "just a scratch."

He felt almost ashamed to subject her eyes to his scarred and war-battered body, especially when her skin was so perfect, unblemished and milky white.

She shook her head, kissing him again, and he tasted the need in her blood.

"Talk to me," she muttered, her darkened eyes flitting from where they connected to his face and back again, "it's so very intense - talk to me."

He obliged, thrusting into her harder.

"You're beautiful," he told her, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, "so beautiful like this. Strong and brave and mine."

"Yes," she whispered hoarsely, "if you are mine."

"Always," his voice was velvet against her lips, "I'll follow you wherever you go. As long as you want me."

Her breath burned his neck as he increased his pace, pulling out almost entirely, before plunging in again to the hilt. She closed her eyes as his grinding hips brought her to the edge, sending her spiraling and splintering beneath him with a desperate cry.

He fucked her through it, grasping the headboard with one hand to steady himself, his lungs straining.

"Come for me, Jon," she begged, fluttering a hand up to press against his mouth. He pressed his lips tenderly against her fingers, much like that first night he truly realised something had changed between them, and he pressed harder and deeper still.

She caught him as he fractured, pulling out with a growl and covering her inner thigh with his seed. He couldn't father a bastard, not when he knew what that meant, and especially not with her. This would have to be enough, and the satisfied expression on her face told him it was.

"I love you," she whispered as he settled his head on her chest, her fingers stroking through his sweat-soaked curls.

He turned his head and murmured a prayer over where her heart lay.

"I love you."

Years later, when the world had turned and bodies were buried in dust - Lannister and Stark, alike - Jon discovered that dragon's blood flowed through his veins.

Part of him wasn't surprised. After-all, hadn't he enjoyed making his sister come beneath his fingers, his mouth, his cock, as the Targaryens had for centuries? Perhaps he had always been more dragon than wolf.

And yet, he was still brave and kind and _Jon._ They had always said whoever his mother was, she had left little of herself in her son. But his mother was Lyanna Stark, and the wolf's blood flowed through his veins as sharp and potent as the dragon's.

"Nothing has changed," Robb and Arya would say fiercely, "_nothing._"

_And yet -_

"Marry me," he whispered to Sansa one night, when she was still breathless and aching and wet between her thighs.

"What?" her eyes flashed their surprise, wide and pretty.

He kissed her, pouring all his pain and love and affection into her.

"You heard me," he said, "you're still unmarried. You're lucky Robb has allowed that to be so; he can't deny you any more than I can. But we're cousins now, it wouldn't be so frowned upon."

"I was raised as your sister," she pointed out, yet her cheeks flushed with delight at the thought of his proposal.

"Not like Arya was," he shrugged, "it was always different for us."

She considered it for a moment, her hand stroking his cheek, before she started to smile.

"We can be together?"

He smiled, kissing her softly.

"We can be together."

Two moons later, while Robb stood stoically next to his lady wife, the sad shadow of a rose between them, Jon and Sansa married in the godswood.

Years ago, he had never held her. Never knew how it felt to have her in his arms.

Now, he'd never let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew this really got away from me, it's too long but I couldn't bring myself to cut any of it. I peppered some lines from the books and show in here, kudos if you noticed them! It was a slog to finish, but hoped you enjoyed this whole 14,000 words of Jonsa goodness! :)


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